Between Two Barren Wastes of Snow
by Catheryne
Summary: CB. She was the main character in the story of a breakup that Chuck created. But instead of settling into a new plot, Chuck finds he cannot stay away.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **I had already begun Part 52 of Mr and Mrs Bass, but had to scrap it because apparently, this is what I'm in the mood for. The title is from Christina Georgina Rossetti.

**Between Two Barren Wastes of Snow**

**Part 1**

The last time he was close to her, enough to breathe her perfume, with distance small enough that he could reach out and cup her jawbone with his hands…

_Her nails dug into his arms, so deep he bled. She clawed at his wrists and pulled. She was terrified. Terrified. And he was squeezing, barely moved from where he straddled her and pinned her to the bed._

_His fingers made marks on the skin of her neck._

_Her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and he pushed deep with his thumbs until she choked and coughed and gasped. Until her entire face held a tinge of gray blue._

He ripped his gaze away from the television screen.

"Mr Bass, your uncle is here to see you."

He could avoid the man, utter a few curt words. He could ask building security never to allow Jack back inside the office. But he had already done it and it bought him forty eight hours before a group of lawyers on his own payroll had done their job and contested the demand.

_Her hair moved. Those thin strands, the locks that had fallen out of the French bun. They moved like they were trembling. Her lips were parted, and he could tell she was breathing through her mouth. Her eyes were full, and the way she looked would be seared in his brain months afterwards._

"_Tell me what I did," she pleaded._

_And he held her gaze, kept himself strong and unrelenting because this was the only way both of them could survive. No matter to him that when she reached for him, to place a hand on his chest, he moved away like he was terrified of her touch._

_Outside, the Bass limo rolled into a stop. He looked up, and she barely turned in her seat. He watched the mute scene from behind the glass doors of the restaurant._

_Jack Bass made a spectacle when he entered. At the sight of Chuck and Blair, those thin lips curved into a smirk. The sight of the man revolted him, but he had returned and still had as much right to his share of the business as he had before. _

"_If you're not going to tell me what I did, then tell me how to fix it," she said. "Because I will. I promise."_

"_Desperation doesn't become you," Chuck returned._

_The hand that reached for him fisted, and she cringed. Slowly, she drew her hand back to her side of the table. And it was good. All the better. He did not need that touch. One touch and it would unravel._

_She stood stiffly, clutched her purse to her front like it was her shield. He could tell that she was struggling not to blink. He did the same, and for the very same reason. If they blinked, if their eyes so much as wavered, then the tears that threatened would fall._

_He was afraid. And he knew at any time she could say those words, and despite the many times he thought of them he was still unprepared to respond._

"_So this is it?" she asked, or said. He could not even tell. _

"_This is it. It was fun," he managed, and kept his voice even, smooth._

_She started to turn away, and his shoulders fell because they could now. There was no need to pretend. But she stopped, and then with her eyebrows furrowed, in confusion, in anger. "I thought you loved me."_

"_I gave you everything," he returned._

_And for that, she gave him a smile, a bitter one, and even that he would remember tonight. "Well," she said, sarcasm not a tinge but an overwhelming wash, "thank you, Chuck. I appreciated all of it."_

_She hurried away, in the way she quickly strode when humiliated and found. Many times before he followed her, rushed after her, spoke to her with an effort to soothe the hurt. But this time he was the one who inflicted it on her, had fully meant to, had planned to let her walk._

_His uncle stepped in front of her, and she stopped in her tracks. Chuck watched the way that Jack closed his hand around her elbow. She pulled away. Of course she would. Blair Waldorf was intelligent enough to know that he still watched. But Jack held firm, leaned low to whisper in her ear._

_Firmly, she pulled her arm out of Jack's grasp. Chuck relaxed in his seat and fixed his gaze on Jack._

_He did not need to look at her. Even while he saw Jack turn to him and raise a glass of wine in acknowledgment, he could tell the precise moment she vanished into a car. _

Jack tossed the thick folder onto his desk. Chuck picked it up, then leaned back in his chair. The first page, the second, the third. He flipped through the report like it was cheap fodder from national tabloids.

"We spent three hundred grand on consultants to get that study," he vaguely heard.

But he flipped through the pages. The charts and numbers made no sense to him. Not now. So Chuck dropped the folder back onto his desk. He looked up at his uncle, then said, "I'll get to it later. You're dismissed."

Jack's eyes narrowed. He picked up the folder, then informed him, "I'll return with these when you have time."

The audio from the television played, and the particular voice was familiar. Chuck glanced up at the plasma high up near the ceiling. Jack looked up in the same direction.

"Stalking your stepsister," Jack said aloud. He shook his head, chuckled. "You are sicker than I thought."

A video of Serena stepping out of a limo and making her way into Bergdorf's. Like always, she was exposed more than he cared. But Bergdorf's was much too close, not where he needed Serena to be.

_Spend a little time with her, why don't you?_

"Get out, Jack." Chuck took the remote in his hand and switched off the television.

But Jack was not done. He never was. They should have pressed charges when he assaulted Lily, so that Jack never darkened their door again. But they had made that mistake and they were now paying for it.

His uncle leaned over the desk, then said, "She doesn't know. I was wondering why you broke it off with her. Apparently, she was too. You didn't give her a reason, Chuck?"

"It's none of your business."

"Poor girl, though. She's always going to wonder. Maybe I should put the question to rest," Jack offered.

It was a test of his patience and his uncle had succeeded. Chuck knew better than this, but even so he shot up from his seat and grabbed the front of Jack's jacket. He pulled close, so that he could spit his response into his uncle's face. "Stay away from her."

"You're not together anymore," Jack reminded him. The man jerked his head towards the black plasma screen. "You're stuck in here watching Serena van der Woodsen. What do you care?"

"If you're not going to leave on your own, I will call security and have them escort you out."

"I have a right to be here," Jack returned. "You own lawyers told you that." But like a Bass, Jack knew when to surrender. He shrugged. Chuck watched his back as he left.

His cellphone vibrated on the top of his desk. He saw the screen light up. If the call had been for work, then it would have been filtered by his secretary. Instead, Chuck stared at the name on the screen.

He could let it go to voicemail.

But he would hear the same thing. He pushed the answer button, then held the phone to his ear.

There was no need to say hello. She knew exactly the moment he answered the same way he knew exactly who it was.

Silence. There were times when he heard her breathing, times when he let her hear him. It was wordless. But he held the phone close to his ear, pressed the cold keypad next to his cheek. The time on the clock was quarter to two, and he had exactly twelve minutes of this before she would hang up and leave.

She had Ethics at two, and a few months ago she brought all the rhetorical, unending questions to bed. Sometimes he wished she would ask him another question, and he could mull over the words and search his brain for an answer. And then he would not feel so stupid about the fact that he had nothing, because no one else in the world could say he knew the right response.

But it had been a long time now, and even Blair Waldorf tired.

At one fifty seven, on the dot, he heard the beep, then a silence that was more silent than the silence before. So silent it was hell of deafening.

He had sworn he deleted them, but Chuck Bass found himself lying more and more everyday.

He played the voice messages, put the cellphone on speaker, then leaned back in his seat. He closed his eyes, so he could conjure up an image of her in his head.

"It's not blue, Chuck. I checked again. It's an off shade of green. It looks like you lose this bet. Get your driver's uniform and pick me up at five tomorrow. I'm thinking—a chauffer who just can't keep his hands off his employer."

His lips twitched. He had waited for her outside her dorm. At the sight of him she placed her hands on her waist and tapped her foot on the steps, then told him he was late and instructed him to carry her bag. They had not left the limo for three hours and had to drive back to New York at past nine.

"The professor is out sick. It's my only class for the day! This is such a waste. I knew I shouldn't have gotten up from bed this morning. You were right."

He took the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then started massaging.

"Sorry I didn't call earlier. I'm running late. Talk to you later. Love you."

He took a deep breath. That was the day he had a presentation for the investor he was wooing. He had not even heard the message until it was well past ten.

"I'm not coming home for the weekend. My nose is stuffed and my eyes keep tearing up. This is an allergy. I'm allergic to damned Whore-gina. She's gone for the weekend so I'll just stay here and be miserable."

He surprised her with a visit that night, discovered she had like always been exaggerating about being allergic to Georgina but completely accurate with the miserable colds. So Chuck had pointed out that allergy symptoms did not include a slight fever and continuous runny nose even when the allergen was away. So he helped her bundle up in bed and asked her driver to buy her soup, then spent the rest of the night breathing in her virus while spooning behind her and watching reality tv.

He gripped the armrest of his chair, knowing what came next but frozen and masochistic enough not to turn it off.

"Talk to me. Tell me what I did. It can't be that easy or that fast."

One.

"Chuck, please, don't do this. I know you're there. Answer the phone."

Two.

"Dammit, Chuck, I swear to God if you don't give me a reason I will hate you forever."

Three.

"I don't hate you. I don't. I just—I don't understand. What happened?" A breath. "I'm sorry." A sob. "Whatever it is, I am."

Four.

Dozens more. And they were depressing, and angry, and loud, and shrill, and sympathetic, and scary. She went up, down, but she remained. Dozens more, and he had watched in silence and kept close tabs on his stepsister because it was the only way he could discover glimpses of her without breaking his promise.

And then he ventured out into the world with a banker's daughter, planted a kiss on a stranger's lips right where he knew she would see.

_He hit the accept button, and held the phone to his ear. He could hear the hitch in her breath, and he cleared his throat. "Blair—"_

"_I'll stop. Okay? I will. I can do it. I stopped loving Nate for you. I stopped loving Marcus for you. I don't know how, but I can stop loving you too."_

"_So don't talk about it," he said. He imagined his father's collector Victorian pistol lovingly cold, resting in his hand. He raised it to his temple. Squeezed. "Do it."_

And that was when the silence began.

tbc

AN: Thoughts?


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **So most of you said you were confused. But you read, and I'm happy. There is a certain strategy employed here too, one in which you will discover bits and pieces as we go along (like All About Serena, or Progeny, or Footsteps of Thy Soul, or other fics I wrote). You will judge the characters—definitely. You will hate each of them but I hope you will understand them eventually. Like in those fics I mentioned, these characters are flawed and are bound to do something you don't agree with. Bonus point though is there is a healthy dollop of other characters in this story. Oh and keep reviewing… Readers are slowly getting fewer and fewer.

**Part 2**

It started with one dream. Like many things in life it started with one dream, and freewheeled and rolled and gathered until it was a force so unstoppable his own brain could not control it.

The dream—the nightmare—started the day that the Bass company lawyer had reluctantly informed him of the legal ramifications of keeping Jack away. Chuck prided himself in his control. He did lose it, did not throw a fit, would not allow his baser instincts to get the better of him. But the information came after months of dealing with the problem and throwing weeks and money into ensuring that Jack would stay in Australia.

"He attacked my stepmother!" he argued.

But the lawyer shook his head, and said in a logical manner, in a tone so tempered it frustrated Chuck even more, "But Lily Bass did not file charges against him. If you keep him from Bass, he can sue you."

"I'm paying you enough that you should be expected to get rid of lawsuits like that."

The man scratched his head, then said, "He's the CEO of Bass Australia. Sir, he can use your legal resources anytime."

"You're working for him?" Chuck clarified in a whisper.

"Mr Bass—Jack—He has a valid claim, and he's presented us with documents—emails from your father sharing his concerns about your inheriting the company. Unfortunately, your father died after the last email, so Jack is now challenging the will."

By the time the lawyer scurried back out of the office, Chuck was gripping his phone. And then, he was dialing, just because he was trembling with fury and choking in frustration.

"Waldorf," he said into the phone.

"I didn't expect you to call now," she answered in a hushed voice. "Wait. I'll slip out of class."

"No, it's fine. Stay."

"You don't sound fine. Just wait a bit."

_He had bought the dress for her. The hem teased her thighs in just the way he knew it would when he first saw it hanging on the static form. He knew it would fit Blair from yards away, even before he placed his hands around the plastic mannequin to test the cloth. He purchased it before they even placed the dress in his hands._

_He had bought the dress for her, because he knew how she would look in it. The old rose tinge was just the perfect reflection of her. In his eyes she was classic, and feminine, dainty and resilient._

_He watched from the balcony, up on the second floor, and saw her make her way out the door. She must have been looking for her, so he placed his glass of scotch on the cement railing. He opened his mouth to call her name._

_Before he could, she turned around, her dress reflecting tiny pinpricks of light in the darkness. He almost felt her excitement when her back straightened and her shoulders shot up. _

"_Blair Waldorf," he heard a voice say, eerily familiar, abhorred, feared._

_And she raised her arms, then greeted, "Finally. I thought you'd never come back."_

_And she was in Jack's arms, her legs shifting and sliding out of the old rose he had chosen just for her. Her legs wrapped around Jack's waist, and her arms strong and firm around his neck._

_It was ridiculous, like wading in a raging river. He stormed down the stairs burning with blinding fury, but he knew, he knew, he ridiculously knew even then that it was a nightmare and that nothing was real. But even then he could not help the gasping terror that filled him._

"What's wrong?" she had asked that afternoon, when she took his call and cut the class she had sworn she would get an A in.

And he had managed not to pause, and told her, "Jack's back."

"Jack," she repeated, at a loss for words the way he knew she would be. Because she had never said sorry, and they had brushed him away like so much lint. But Jack was back, certainly more than a lint, more than someone that would just vanish into the Pacific Ocean so they could live their lives in peace.

And all he could offer her back was, "Yes. Jack, Blair."

The half a minute before she spoke seemed longer. When she did respond, it was another brush, another effort to forget. "You know what? The lecture I stepped out of is going to be covered in an exam on Friday."

"I see," he said softly. "Then you better go back."

"I should," she said tentatively.

So he waited, and listened to her breathing. When she would not say more, he turned off the phone and returned to his work.

_He dragged her by her hair across the garden, and she did not scream. He pushed her down on the hard ground, and she did not cry. So he stumbled down on his knees beside her and looked down at her, his face inches from hers._

"_Why aren't you begging?" he spat._

"_Because you're not going to hurt me," she returned, her voice calm._

"_Fucking cry!" he demanded, and she shook her head. So he drew back his arm, gritted his teeth._

"_No."_

It started with one.

It never ended. One turned to two and two to five dozen. Every night, every sleep, every time he dozed, it was another way, another process, but it all ended the same.

_Her skin was bruised, bloody. She lay still with her hair fanned out under her head. The garden was pebbled and the white stones shone. They were cold. The stone in his hand was cold. He glanced down at it and saw the white stone matted by some brown fluid. He brought it up close to his face and saw the strands of dark hair stuck on the surface._

_And so, slowly, his gaze shifted to her face._

_He eyes were empty now, staring back at him in the same calm stare. _

_And then, to his horror, he realized she was half naked in the shredded old rose dress. Her shoulders were grimy with the garden soil. And blood, blood was creating a horrific pool under her head, and it got larger and larger until it seeped down through the pebbles and into the discarded pair of his own pants._

"_You didn't apologize," he said, in the fucking nightmare that was so real and so imaginary that he knew every moment was in his head._

"You're not with Blair," he stated into the phone. "Do you even know where she is?"

If he knew his stepsister, and by this time he was sure he had Serena down pat, then she would be sitting up and taking offense at his question. Sure enough, Serena exclaimed, "I'm not your slave, Chuck. And I'm not going to spy on my best friend for you."

"Do you know where she is?" he demanded again, his mind on one track and would not be derailed.

"She's at school. Of course she's at school. Where do you expect her to be?" And then, she paused. "You broke up with her out of nowhere and you're the one scampering for information. You know what, Chuck? You're the trainwreck—not me."

~o~o~o~o~

The first time he met Blair Waldorf—really met Blair Waldorf—she had been slumped on the floor broken and humiliated by her mother's obvious preference of another girl.

The second time he met Blair Waldorf, she was insecure and breathless, about to make the biggest mistake of her life right on his very own rooftop.

He never met the real Blair Waldorf again after that. Instead, he met some versions of Blair. There was that perfect Blair in that perfect relationship she recreated with Nate. There was that Blair who had been caught up in her honeymoon with Chuck Bass, who barely spared anyone else a glance unless she needed them for taking down Carter Baizen or Georgina Sparks.

But they were attending the same school now, and he knew he would run into her eventually. When he started seeing Georgie, he avoided her as much as possible. But NYU was small, and Blair Waldorf was large—larger than life—larger than many other girls he knew. When she was around, no matter how tiny she was—she was large in his eyes.

And so the third time he met Blair Waldorf, she was in the dorm room when he expected her out and Georgie in there. He had not expected to meet the real Blair Waldorf then. He had not physically or psychologically prepared for it.

"I'm sorry," Dan stammered. "I'll let myself out."

She looked up from her book, and Dan stopped in his tracks when he saw her eyes red and sore. "Humphrey," she said in a way that was so uniquely hers that even something as simple as his name was delivered like an accusation.

And he wanted to plead guilty to it, because her expression was so proud and stubborn and so much like a victim, and say, "Yes. I am Humphrey."

"Sorry to disturb you."

"Georgina's not here," she stated.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then cleared his throat and hesitantly said, "I can see that." He used his thumb to point to the door. "So I'm just going to go."

"Then go. I don't care," she said. Blair Waldorf raised her book to cover her face, but he could see the way the book trembled.

Normal books did not tremble by themselves, and Dan doubted that she was rich enough to buy a book that had a life of its own, let alone a living book that was depressed and sniffling to boot. So as much as he wanted to leave, he found himself doing the same thing he did every time he met the real Blair Waldorf. Thankfully, it did not happen more than once a year, and this could be it for this year.

Dan took a few steps towards her. She lowered her book then glared at him. "I don't have any weapons," he said, showing her that his hands were clear.

"The weapon's in your head," she said. "Don't think Chuck hasn't told me about how you used his weak moment to write about him."

"I won't write about you," he said, although the statement gave him a bit of pride. "Whatever's got you bothered is probably not as enthralling as the deep dark secrets of the Bass family."

She flinched, and he caught it and wanted to apologize. But he stopped himself because there was no need to. Blair pointedly ignored his presence and returned to her book. Dan wished he was like her, and he could just ignore her and go back to his day.

"So is this about Chuck?"

"You don't know anything about me, Humphrey, so just get out of here. Your Whore-gina isn't around."

He scratched the shell of his ear, because he did not need the abuse. So he cursed his father and his mother for raising him in such a way that even at the onslaught of Blair's attack, he still remained. It was probably due to his parents staying together for so long after the marriage should have ended. He blamed Lily for inviting Chuck to family dinners so much that the man became less of a spoiled asshole and more human.

"I heard that you and Chuck broke up."

"I don't want to talk about it," she said quietly. "I have a book review to write and you're not helping at all. He's a jerk. He broke up with me. I can do better than him. I heard it all before, Humphrey, and from people who matter more than you do."

Well at least he mattered, even though he mattered least in her list of people.

"Heard that from Nate and Serena, huh?" he said, settling into a conversation with the cover of her book.

She did not answer, but turned the page.

So he chuckled softly.

She lowered her book, placed it on her lap. Her eyes narrowed. "You think this is funny," she said, not a question.

"It's ridiculous," he informed her. "Chuck Bass is in love with you. You know it; he knows it. Hell, I know it, and I'm not exactly a confidante." He gestured towards her face as evidence. "So this is just one of those ways you keep the relationship from getting boring. I heard about it."

Looking back at it, Dan would say that it was a bad idea. Hindsight was twenty twenty. But for the brief moment that Blair lit up and sat up on the bed, it had been worth it. She wiped at her cheeks, and Dan discovered then that the real Blair Waldorf was not necessarily the severely depressed and insecure one he encountered once a year. The real Blair was the one who was open, who did not have the shield up.

"You really think so?" she said in a firm, insistent voice.

"I really think so," he told her.

She stood up from the bed, on the other side, and her blanket slid down to the floor. Dan turned his gaze away when he discovered the very small and tight pair of shorts she wore with her tank. She bent down, fumbling for something on the floor.

"Blair," he called out tentatively.

"I can't find my phone," she muttered.

So Dan Humphrey, as unwelcome as he was in the dorm room, was on all fours the next minute and then reaching under the bed. After a few seconds contemplating what he was doing there, his hand closed around the hard, cold object. He handed it to her.

"Call him. Tell him you discovered the game and it has to stop."

She dialed, and she gave him a smile.

He assessed her bloodshot eyes and the cheeks that were noticeably sunken. But Chuck Bass would not let a game go as far as this, he thought. She hit the speakerphone, and Dan suddenly wanted to grab it and end the call.

"Why are you calling again?" Dan heard Chuck's voice from the tiny phone. "I thought I told you, Blair. It's over."

"I know it's a game, Chuck. It's not funny anymore. Chuck, please. It's been too long—"

Blair's eyes rose and met his, and Dan realized how very wrong he was. "How pathetic are you willing to go, Waldorf? I said we're done."

And there was a click.

Told him that the call was over. That Chuck was done.

They were done.

"Look," he said in a rush, "I'm sor—"

She turned her face away, blinked, and he knew he had to leave because she was going to do something she was not willing to let him see. She gestured to the door, and Dan dragged his feet towards the exit. When the door slammed behind him, he heard the thump, the muffled cry.

Wondered if it was the last time he saw the real Blair Waldorf.

It wasn't a week later, in a party he got dragged into by people from his class, out in the fraternity house that would have snubbed him for his background had his father not been engaged to Lily, that he saw, once again, a new version of her.

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

_Her skin was just the way he remembered it. _

_Her thighs, her hands, the curve of her neck, the dip just under her lower lip._

_She was everything he remembered, all that he touched and memorized. Everything that was Blair was clear and captured._

_And his brain was frozen in a silent scream. The photographs were laid out in such neat, organized precision on his desk. It was as though the hands that touched them lovingly brushed on the gloss. He could see smudges of fingers just right above where her mouth was open in the corner picture; a smudge right by her breast, another on the shot of her ass. In every one of the photos there was another hand, another mouth, and she was pressed behind another man._

_The door opened, and he slowly looked up because even though it was all so real he wished it was a nightmare._

_And there she was, with the same glossy lips, the same heavy-lidded eyes. She gave him a small smile, but all he could see was her mouth parted while Jack's hand crept under her dress. "I came as soon as I could," she explained. "You sounded awful on the phone." And then, when he was quiet, she added, "So Jack's back."_

_And for a little while his hand twitched, needing to grab her tongue and crush it for ever mentioning that name._

_On the third picture at the topmost row, Jack's tongue was fat against the lobe of her right ear._

"_Are you okay?"_

_Who was going to be fine when sitting in front of that storyboard?_

_She sighed, and her breasts heaved under the silk of her blouse. Two photos below the tongue, Jack's mouth latched onto her nipple from over her clothes. And for that one second he wondered what it would be like to slam his first into her chest and feel bone break under his knuckles._

_He was a fucking maniac; and never even knew. Not until her._

"_You look a bit pale," she commented. He stiffened when she stepped closer, and he wanted to hiss at her to stay back. But his throat was tight and no sound came. "Chuck—"_

_She was only a few steps away, when he saw even the tiniest glint in her eye when light reflected on a photograph. _

"_What are those?" she asked. And she came close. Oddly enough he did not feel the need to stop her, felt instead a titillating curiosity for her reaction. He kept his eyes on her face. He did not need to see more of the pictures, yet at the same time even with his gaze on her all he could see were those pictures._

"_Chuck," she said nervously as he saw the pictures one by one. She snatched one up, then another. "Oh my God!" She turned to him, and now the glint in her eyes was not the light. "What are you doing with these?"_

_And right then he wanted to gather the pictures into a ball and stuff them inside her mouth. Her open mouth while Jack trailed kisses on her neck. Her shameless mouth that just the night before kissed him, whispered she loved him._

"_Where did you get these?" she demanded. And then she dropped the pictures, clapped a hand over her mouth. "Jack."_

_The name. The name. That dirty mouth that could say the name._

"_Throw it away!" she cried._

_He contained the trembling fury, then gathered the photographs just like she asked. Because that was what he did. Since he began the relationship he had made her happy. However that's achieved, he had promised. And that was always what he did._

"_Throw them away, Chuck!"_

_So he crumpled them one by one and resisted the urge to throw them at her face. And he dropped them all into the trash bin. She glared at the silver can, almost like her stare could cause it to combust. _

"_Those are from last year," she whispered._

_And he thought as much. He had known as much. But he had never seen as much. His retinas would sear off._

"_He's trying to take you down," she said in a rush. He looked down at the balled photos and congratulated his uncle. When a Bass man fights, he throws it down. But he was not ready for her, not prepared for more. "That's what he's doing." And he belatedly noticed the voice coming closer. _

_And he could see still Jack pressed up behind her, so he raised a hand to stay her. His hand connected with her face, and he stopped. Noticed the cut on her lip and saw the blossoming blood. She looked up at him, raised a finger to where it stung. And immediately he offered the folded handkerchief from his pocket, then dabbed on the wound._

"_I'm sorry," he choked out finally._

_She nodded, then grasped his hand to stop him. He looked down at the blood on his white handkerchief. "Look at me." He did, and saw her watery eyes pleading. "This isn't going to affect us. Jack—Jack happened a long time ago. You know that. He doesn't matter." _

_He breathed._

"_Tell me it won't affect us," she repeated._

_She still didn't apologize, he thought. But he loved her more than he hated Jack; loved her more than he felt anything for anyone. And he would make her happy, however that was achieved._

_So he promised her, "It won't."_

_That night, he removed his jacket before bed. The white handkerchief dropped on the bed, and he flinched at the droplets of blood. The shower was running, because she was off from school the next day and she spent those nights with him. The bathroom door opened, and she stepped outside with her hair still wet._

_The pictures were gone, but he could see as clearly as if they were stapled on her robe—Jack's fingers buried in her hair._

"_I love you," he said to her._

_She smiled. In surprise. In relief._

_Blair walked over to him and placed a hand on his chest. "I love you too."_

_That night she slept in his arms, and he breathed in the scent of her shampoo with his lips buried in her hair. _

_That was the first night he dreamed of killing her._

He thought that maybe it was because he was living in a house that Bart Bass built. Or maybe it was just that Serena had guilted him into a tentative understanding of her best friend. Maybe it was the heartbreaking story that Chuck once fed him about his mother.

Dan suspected it had something to do with the girl herself.

The party had been packed and loud. Receiving the invitation to the party for a fraternity as exclusive and influential as the Alpha Phi Omega was an accomplishment little people from Brooklyn could only dream of. By a stroke of luck, Dan received the invitation and was more than happy to attend. Getting pledged into the fraternity was his ticket to a comfortable, if not lucrative, career in the future. The editors of the largest papers in the country were alumni. Publishers, news anchors, politicians, financiers. The biggest and the best were on the walls of the Alpha Phi Omega house.

"Dan Humphrey!"

Dan turned and saw another man, who carried himself much like the way Nate did, and pegged him at once as a politician's son—or grandson. "Kyle Harris," he introduced himself.

"Kyle—Kyle Harris?" Dan clarified. "Son of Peter Harris."

"The one and only," Kyle said. "But don't let that fool you. I'm not a Republican."

Dan pointedly looked around him, then nodded. "I should think not," he commented.

His head was whirling at the welcome, and knew this was the ticket. He had one foot in the door, and he hardly even cared if this was from Georgina or from the fact that his father married Lily Bass. He was even hoping that it could be because he had made his own name in the school. He was going to pledge and be initiated into this fraternity, and he would make a future for himself.

"So what does a guy have to do to become a part of all this?"

And who cared if there were women dancing on couches, or freshmen barfing into garbage cans? He even turned a blind eye to a blond man with a loosened pink tie crushing little pills with a spoon and making his own mystery drink.

"You impress Jeff March," Kyle said, indicating the blonde that Dan had just tried to ignore. The name rang heavily of a network giant, and he realized he was looking at the last surviving grandson of a movie and tv tycoon. "He's president." And then Kyle found a newcomer, waved and nodded, then excused himself. And so early on he realized he was not so special after all.

"Dan Humphrey."

He frowned, because he recognized the voice. But there was no way for her to make it here, nor would she be interested in an affair like that. Blair Waldorf's voice was hers and hers alone, so he turned and found himself staring down at Blair.

In the khaki shorts and loose top, which he knew was branded even without looking at the label, she almost looked like she fit in.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

And the smile was the first that tipped him off. "I'm glad to see you too, Humphrey." He heard someone say her name, and when she turned there was a slight stumble. Just a little. Enough that he reached out immediately to grab her arm but not enough for her to fall.

"Jeff March," he recognized as the blonde approached with a drink in his hand. Dan's eyes narrowed at the glass, and noticed the still floating powder barely dissolved in the liquid.

Blair accepted the drink, and tipped a little into her mouth. "Aren't you lucky, Brooklyn. Turns out I'm dating the president."

So it was likely Lily, or Serena, or the fact that he knew and understood Chuck by now. Or it could it be the girl herself. The next thing he knew, he had snatched the glass from Blair Waldorf and in his rush placed it too close to the edge of a table. It fell, then crashed onto the floor, spilling the liquid on the tiles.

"What the hell?"

He grabbed her arm, then pulled her by his side. Jeff March grabbed the front of his shirt.

"Dan!" Blair complained.

"We're leaving."

"The hell you are," the blonde spat.

Dan raised a finger. "Try anything, or I will have the police over here to check for drugs." He glanced at Blair, noticed her now blinking and shaking her head.

"What's your name?"

"Dan Humphrey."

"Kiss Alpha Phi goodbye."

She was falling asleep even before they made it to her dorm room, so he took a detour and slipped her into his instead. He helped his to his bed and passed the time by putting Conan in the background and looking through his notes. Better review as early as he could, because he was going to need the As if he was going to make his own way in the world. Alpha Phi was out anyway.

When she woke up, he had a trash can ready. Blair Waldorf turned to her side and he held the can for her when she heaved pungent liquid. He held his breath and almost choked keeping his own bile inside.

And then she collapsed back on the bed and glared at him. "You realize you just ruined all your chances of getting into that fraternity."

"You realize you owe me big time. I just saved you from getting date raped," he retorted.

"You're stupid," she whispered. "He wanted me."

"Believe me. Jeff March didn't want you. A guy who wants you wouldn't need to drug you. He'll work to earn his way in," he told her. "Chuck Bass gave you your dream prom."

But words like those only served to inflame her, he realized, because then her mouth was plastered on his and he could taste alcohol and her vomit on his tongue. And for a sick minute he pressed his lips back against hers and held his breath. But then, he placed his hands on her arms and pulled himself away.

"This isn't right," he said.

Her face. If a face could be broken, then this was how it would look. He was a writer, not a painter, and the only word he could think of was broken.

"What? You don't want me either?"

Like Nate did not want her. He wanted Serena. Serena confessed the story. And Marcus, he knew, had wanted Katherine.

But Chuck Bass…

He never did get that answer.

"I know someone who wanted you."

She turned her back on him, but she was in his bed so he had no option but to sit back by the table with his notes. He heard the sniffling, and knew that tomorrow when she left she would act like tonight never happened. She dialed the phone. He heard the keypad tone.

"I'm sorry," she said. He turned, because he hoped a little it was an apology to him. It was not. She clutched the phone to her ear. She could be talking to Chuck, but then again her voice changed when the message was for Chuck Bass. "I never realized how awful it is for someone to break up with you without knowing why. Not until now. I'm so sorry, Nate."

Dan looked back at his book. The words blurred together when she whispered.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

And she was crying and her voice hitched. Nate was on the other line, but she was talking to someone else, because her voice shifted and Nate listened to an apology that was not for him at all.

"If I could take it back, I would. I would never have wished this on anyone, Nate."

The call ended, and she placed her phone by her head. The sniffling slowed, and the sobbing softened. He stood up and walked around the bed. The phone lit, then rang. She stirred, and he snatched up the phone and looked down at the caller id.

"Private," he read.

He had no way of knowing, but even then he made his way to the window of his dorm room. Dan pushed the curtain to the side and looked down at the street. The black stretch limousine sat across the street. Chuck Bass. Ruined her life with no explanation, and now the man had the temerity to stalk her. He glanced back at Blair, then made his way out the door.

The limo door opened. Dan's lips thinned.

"Bass!" he yelled.

The first thing he saw was a leg out the door, then the man climbed out of the limousine. Dan frowned at the build that was different from expected. The man turned to face Dan.

"Who are you?"

"Mr Humphrey." The man extended a hand. "Jack Bass. Chuck's uncle. I'm here to check on Blair."

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: **Your support is lovely. Thank you.

**Part 4**

He himself did not understand the simple hold she had on him. She was a girl. It had been titillating to fuck her. Knowing she was his nephew's added to the thrill of the night, he had to admit, but she was hardly talented in the department. Most of the time she moved with uncertainty, almost like she did not know what she was doing, always like she was less than eager.

And he had not been offended, or disappointed. He had not expected much of the tryst. It was a simple seduction, he thought. He only needed ammunition for any future battle. When billions were at stake, a man had to be creative.

_Blair Waldorf was a girl. By all estimations she should be the most forgettable lay. _

_In the New Year's Eve afterglow, he had been less than impressed. She stumbled out of bed, picked up her clothes and announced she was leaving. Jack was grateful about the coincidence that it so easy to be rid of her. He turned his back on her when she made her way to the bathroom. Fully expected her to make her way out of the suite within minutes._

_But she had not, and he considered it an intrusion that he had to open the bathroom door himself to check on her._

_It was a mistake of epic proportions._

_It was that sight of her, half-dressed, with her tear-streaked face, hunched over the sink with only her elbows supporting her. She turned her head to him and shook her head. "I don't love you," she cried. "I'm here, and I slept with you, and I don't love you."_

_And the forgettable became unforgettable._

_He drew a towel from the rack, then wrapped it around his waist. Somehow, in front of Blair Waldorf crying, the nakedness was inappropriate and uncomfortable. "Hey," he said, stepping closer to her, "you didn't do anything wrong."_

_She stared back at her reflection in the mirror, touched a spot by her collarbone that seemed raw. Blair Waldorf twisted the faucet knob and splashed cold water on the redness, then scrubbed it with the miniscule hotel soap from the sink. "What did I do?" she gasped out._

"_You were miserable and I kept your mind away from it. For a little while."_

_He stepped closer to her, because he had promised to comfort her and holding her arms seemed such a fitting way to do it. _

_But he had barely touched her when she twisted away and hurriedly buttoned her clothes. "No. This was a mistake. This was a biggest mistake of my life!" she yelled. "This did not happen, Jack."_

_It must be some part of his childhood. At least that was what he imagined in the nights that followed. When he thought back to it, he had no logical reason to chase Blair Waldorf the way he did. But he watched her with Chuck and found the blind devotion stimulating._

_It must be something from his childhood, he concluded. Because pretty as he thought she was when he first laid eyes on her, he was not attracted to her until she asked him to help her find Chuck. And despite his well thought out plan of capturing her fall on film, he never did get a rise until she was drunk and crying about missing Chuck._

_He would never forget the sight of her, right before she closed the door behind her, when she apologized and pleaded, "I don't want Chuck to know. Please. You can't say a word. I'm in love with him, so please don't tell anyone about this."_

It was her fault, Jack thought. She was the one who made the forgettable so unforgettable.

And so he had fought the legal battle. From the comfort of his own company in Australia, he had schemed his way back to America. And the plan had been simple. He needed to take back what was his. He had shelved her. Long ago. It took work on his part until he decided he was in control, and prepared to take over the company that Bart had cheated him out of.

Men fall because of the women in their lives. History had proved it. Business would not acknowledge it. But it was as real as any sordid tale of lies and deceit. And for his particular goal, he had the perfect ammunition.

So he resisted the urge to create a photo essay of his favorite photographs in the world, then watched with satisfaction as Chuck fell apart.

She had made herself unforgettable, so months later he found himself following a kid from Brooklyn that he had never met before. They went up the stairs of the dormitory that reminded him a little of the college he attended. It was well below him now.

"She's in my room," Dan Humphrey explained. "Not that we're—We're not—you know, involved or—Well, she's not—"

"I know, Mr Humphrey," he responded as pleasantly as possible.

They stopped in front of a door that even Jack hesitated to touch. Dan Humphrey opened the door, and Jack stepped inside the room.

"Bad timing," Dan commented. "Looks like she's asleep."

Jack grabbed the door, then said, "I can wait. I'd like to have some privacy please." He shut the door, then glanced at the curled figure on the bed. He almost gagged at the smell hanging over the place. The doorknob twisted, but he had locked it already. He walked over to the bed and held his breath. "Blair, wake up."

She opened her eyes and paused with her half-lidded gaze. She stared at him for a long moment, almost as if trying to place him.

"Get up. We'll find a cleaner place than this," he told her.

When her senses returned to her fully, she sat up on the bed and screamed.

~o~o~o~o~

Dan cursed when the door would not open. He banged his fist on the door and demanded for Jack to open it. When there was no response, he banged louder until one of the residents from the opposite room opened his own door and yelled at him.

"I'm sorry!" Dan replied, raising his hands in a silent vow that he would not make noise again. If anyone discovered that he had a girl in his room, he was going to be kicked out of the dorm.

Dan heard the scream from inside his room, then cursed. He took his phone from his pocket and hoped the neighbor did not complain. The guy did not open the door again, and Chuck figured female screaming was generally more accepted in the dorm than a guy banging on his door.

Serena's phone was off. He paced the corridor, then decided to bite the bullet and leave a message. He called again, then waited until his call reached the voice mailbox.

"Hey Serena. I can't reach you on your cell. I need to talk to you. Do you know what the deal is with Jack Bass? He's here."

~o~o~o~o~o

"You ruined my life!" she yelled at him. Her eyes were brilliant with her tears, but nothing fell. Jack shook his head. "How dare you show your face to me? You destroyed my entire life, you bastard!"

"All I did was show Chuck something he already knew," he argued.

"Pictures, Jack? You really are a soulless bastard."

"How little do you regard yourself when your life depends on what my nephew thinks of you?" Jack demanded. He caught a notebook that Blair threw at him. "Because believe me, Blair, he's no prize."

"I hate you!" she spat out.

And expletives like those just endeared her to him even more. He really needed to see someone about that. "How quickly did he wash his hands off you? Was it the night he found the pictures?"

He knew very well that Chuck had kept her for weeks following the discovery. What he would not give to know the details of each day between the photographs and the breakup. It would make for clearer insight about Chuck—and he needed full understanding of his nephew's personality before he went about the business of taking control of Bass.

It was even more cruel, Jack thought. Those weeks. She had fully expected that all had been forgiven. Even now she wondered, and could not quite place whether or not it was the pictures that did it.

"I loved one of them in particular," Jack told her. "Did you see the one where you looked like you were in pain? I had my hand up your skirt there. Just didn't show on camera."

"Stop," she bit out.

"Let me take you home," he offered.

"No."

"Then I'll take you to your dorm. Alright? I'll keep my hands to myself."

She glared at him. "You attacked Lily. You attacked her because she screwed up your plan to get your brother's company. That's why you're here now, Jack."

"You think you know me," he said.

"You went after me because of Chuck," she reminded him. "Not because you want me. Well, there's no reason to come after me this time, Jack. Chuck and I are over," she said, in a voice so pained he wanted to take her in his arms and not fuck her.

"So why am I still here, Blair?"

And then softly, so softly that he had to lean forward to hear, she said, "I don't know what your sick, perverted mind is planning now. But leave me out of it. I'm tired, Jack. I just want to curl up and be gone."

"I could be out there selling myself to the dozen of investors that Chuck can't seem to get. I'm good at that," Jack told her. "I can be out there talking to the board while Lily's away."

"Then why aren't you?" she sighed.

"Why don't you be the one to think about that?" Jack suggested.

~o~o~o~o~

"Here you go, Chuck," Rufus said as he placed a plate in front of Chuck on the dinner table. "I'm really glad you could join us." He patted Chuck's arm, then said, "It keeps us from getting sad that Dan is away in college."

Chuck glared at the utensil, but did not retort that he was in no way an equal replacement of Daniel Humphrey. He had only joined dinner because Serena demanded that he show up.

"Well, sis?" he prompted.

Serena knew very well he was only here for updates, and if she spilled early then it would save him the trouble of wasting an hour having dinner with his stepmother's new family. Serena shook her head, but no longer went on about her automated spiel about Chuck needing to face his ex-girlfriend if he wanted updates on her.

"I saw her yesterday," she said.

There was that pang again, in his chest. He kept it at bay. "Yesterday."

"I came home late so I didn't get to tell you about it earlier."

Eric looked up from his food. Chuck ignored at arch of the younger boy's eyebrows, because he had heard the lecture from Serena. And Serena was still alive because he needed her to see Blair. Eric, not so much.

It was Eric who asked this time, in what Chuck recognized as his apology for the earlier expression. "Blair Waldorf in NYU," Eric declared. "How does she look?"

The words would be the same. Sometimes, the words hurt and Chuck did not want to hear them.

"I took pictures," she offered. Chuck flinched, because the word was traumatic now. But he needed to know, needed to see. And he hoped that Blair looked happy and healthy in those pictures.

Rufus cleared his throat, but stopped short of prohibiting cellphones at the dinner table.

Serena whipped up her phone. "Oh. The battery's dead." She stood up. "I'll charge it for a few minutes. It will be ready by the time we finish dinner," she told Chuck.

"Come back to the dinner table quickly, please," Rufus called out a reminder as she made her way out of the dining room.

Chuck continued eating while waiting for Serena to get back. He turned to Eric and asked for water, because heaven forbid that Rufus would have alcohol on the table with family present.

"If I may ask, Chuck," Rufus started, and Chuck already tensed, "why did you and Blair break up? You seem awfully interested in her business."

"No, dad. You may not ask that," Eric answered for him.

Chuck stabbed a shrimp with his fork and brought it up to his mouth. Serena made her way back to the dining room. She stopped beside the landline and dialed a number, then lazily put it on speaker. Chuck heard the echo as the speaker announced seven messages already in Serena's voicemail.

A purchase pickup reminder from a boutique.

The jeweler letting her know that her necklace clasp was fixed.

Lily checking in.

And then Dan's frantic huff. She picked up the phone and listened intently. Chuck looked up at his stepsister. Her gaze met his.

"I have to go," she said, clutching the handset to her bosom.

Rufus looked on in concern. Chuck shot up from his seat and stalked over to her, then grabbed the handset. He listened, but it was now some automated offer playing.

"Play it again," he said.

Serena's hands trembled as she reached for the keypad on the phone, then pressed her code to play back the selected message. "I need the limo," she said.

Chuck lowered the handset, then handed it to her. "I'm going," he decided. "Enough of this. This is my trip to do."

"_Sometimes I look down at my hands and they're drenched in blood," he whispered. "And I know I did it again. It's sick. And I get sick."_

"_How soon do you know that it's just a dream?"_

"_I know even before I kill her," he admitted. "And I know I'm going to kill her, and I still do it. In my head, while I'm sleeping, I'm fully aware of what's happening."_

"_You mean, you can tell it's a nightmare?"_

_He nodded, wondered what the implications were. "Sometimes I strangle her to death. One time I bashed her skull in with a rock. Last night I opened a drawer at my father's desk, over in Bass Industries. I saw the gun there, ivory handle, classic Western, hundred twenty grand collector's edition. And while I was taking it out from its case, I was thinking that it was a dream because I know my dad already sent the gun to the bank vault."_

"_What did you do next?"_

_Chuck lowered his head into his hands. "I called her on her cell and asked her to meet me at the hotel lobby for lunch." He chuckled, without humor. "She's in NYU, with back to back classes. But it was a dream, you know. She made it there on time."_

"_So you killed her."_

_He shuddered. "I brought her with me to the honeymoon suite. I had room service bring up lunch. And I handed her a glass of Dom."_

"_Did it feel real?"_

"_And then I made love to her with the curtains open and the sunlight streaming in. She likes that. It excites her." And then, without emotion, briskly, he said, "Then I shoot her right there, while she was lying on the bed."_

Oddly enough, his breath was slow, neutral. In his dreams when he was about to see her his heart rate was high and his breathing quick and shallow. He raised a hand to knock on the door, and his entire body was cold. In those nightmares, at this precise moment he would be covered in sweat.

The door swung open, and the squeaking sound it made almost seemed to come from his throat.

"Chuck?" she breathed.

She was thin, was the first thought in his head. Her mother would be delighted, but his throat closed at the way her cheeks seemed a little sunken.

His gaze drifted to the large bruise on her upper arm. It was purpling at the sides. He brought his hand up to touch it, but stopped himself inches short of her skin.

"Oh," she gasped when she noted his attention. "I was drunk. It was stupid. I'm not used to the building yet. I hit myself against the lamp outside."

She stepped aside and invited him inside. Chuck thought twice, thrice, a dozen times before stepping in. He kept a considerable distance between them as he assessed the room. The other bed was coverless, and the clothes were gone.

"Georgina left," she said. "I'm alone here now."

He sat down on the edge of the empty bed. Finally, dredging voice out of dry throat, he asked, "How have you been, Blair?"

The question seemed to surprise her. She stopped, then turned to her. "It's been hell, Chuck," she answered. Hell. He wondered exactly how she thought of hell, wondered if it was anything close to how he felt every time he woke up. "I've been calling you. And now you're here." She asked, "Why are you here, Chuck?"

He stood up, ready to go. He had seen her. And Jack was no longer there. She had gotten rid of him. She would never touch the man again. He doubted, even as he broke up with her, that she would ever consider Jack again. But her honesty then had not been the issue.

"I heard about Jack."

She thrust up her chin. "He's not here. But if I thought he was going to be the reason for you to spare me a thought again, I would have invited him over a long time ago."

"That's not fair, Blair," he said softly. "I've thought of you every day."

She closed her eyes, fought the tears from spilling. "Every day?" She opened her eyes in time to see the way he looked at her. He turned his head away. And then she was in front of him, reaching for him. Her fingertips touched his face, and he jerked away. Her lips parted in surprise. "You hate my touch that much?"

"Stay safe, Blair," he told her.

He fought the incredible urge to lean down and kiss the corner of her lips.

"_After you kill her, how do you feel?"_

_He raised his arm up and rested it at the back of the couch. He closed his eyes, then rested his knuckles against his lips. Chuck thought back to those moments. He never registered them. In the horror of the murders, he never stood around to consider after. So he looked back and remembered._

_One last breath. There was always one last breath._

_One last look. Right before her eyes closed when she had no more air. Right before his arm swung to deliver the blow. Right before the last pulse of blood from her wound._

"_I feel…" Chuck licked his lips. "That it's finished."_

"_When she's gone, it's finished?"_

"_It's finished."_

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: **So this fic is intentionally staying away from Blair's POV. You'll see everyone's POV—mostly the boy's—but not Blair's.

**Part 5**

But it had gone on too long, too far, too very much. Blair did not let it go with the same sad goodbye. When he turned to leave, she was unforgiving in the way she grasped his elbow and tugged—so he would be forced to face her when all he wanted was to forget her face.

All because the more he looked at her, the clearer she would appear to him when he crushed the life out of her tonight.

"No," she whispered, and her voice was the voice that screamed at him when he murdered her. "Not until you tell me why."

He wondered if it showed, if she saw. It would be close to impossible not to know. He never could hide from her, not even when tears threatened him and mocked him for all the lack of his control. "You don't want to know," he said quietly, almost pleadingly, proving once again that he was no match in the face of this—this—this woman.

"I'm asking you," she gritted out.

"Why can't you just do us both a favor and move on, Blair?"

He should not have said the name. Her name on his tongue. He could taste it. Taste her again.

She closed her eyes, and he thought he saw the fleeting ecstasy at the sound of her name. She took a breath, and then she admitted, "I almost forgot the sound of my name when you say it."

And he knew he could not allow more of this, longer of this. "I wish you weren't this stubborn."

And she kept her eyes closed, as if the longer she did the longer this would last. Even though it was painful, she would make it last. "That's like saying you wish I weren't me." And she was so very right. "You love me. I know you do. You just have to tell me what I did, because I'll make up for it. I swear."

"There's nothing you can do," he informed her.

And then, finally, as if she admitted her defeat, she opened her eyes and gave him the saddest look he ever saw. "Is it—"

Whatever it was she clung to now, he would allow her to believe it. It was her own answer that would convince her. "Yes," he said.

"But you forgave me that," she breathed.

Jack.

If only it were Jack, and the fucking night when she fucked him. One night, one mistake. Her one night could be lost in the endless sins he made. But it was the one she most feared, the one she truly regretted, the one she considered to be the most unforgivable.

"You slept with Jack."

And everything afterwards, the glory and the faith, the love and the belief—"I slept with Jack, and nothing between us after that could make up for it?"

"I think of you and I see him slobbering all over you," he told her. The sky was clear out, and he wished there was a thunderstorm, and lightning would strike him at the lie.

"When you think of that, will you remember that I love you?" she said to him.

Tentatively, she reached to touch his cheek, and he glimpsed the bruise on her arm. It was small, a silly little hurt, a minor accident that appeared so out of place on her skin—and it was nothing compared to what he could and had done in his dreams. He jerked away from her and knocked her arm away.

"Don't touch me," he rasped. "If you touch me, if I touch you, I swear to God, Blair, I'll hurt you."

And with those words, it was finished. Like the moment he killed her, that split second when he looked down at her face and knew she was dead—it was finished.

But she was still Blair Waldorf and in that instant he was proud of her. Her palm connected with his cheek, and it stung. It stung like a bitch and showed him she was not dead. Not all of her.

He held to his hot cheek with one cool hand and looked at her from the corner of his eyes.

Chuck waited for her to demand that he leave. Instead, she met his gaze with a set one of her own. When she did not speak, he was horribly aware that they could stay here, locked in this impasse for hours. For a split second he told himself how different it would be, how wonderful even, if he could stay.

"Then why did you come at all, Chuck?"

He fought his own stupid, illogical, transparent emotions. "Because I wanted to catch you two with my own eyes," he said slowly.

Her lips thinned. She drew back, and it was almost physical. "Well," she said, "tough luck. Maybe next time you should try again."

He stalked towards the door to leave. His hand closed around the cold knob and twisted it. Before he closed the door, he turned to her. Right at that moment she turned away. And he left.

"_How did you sleep last night?"_

_Chuck crossed his legs, then leaned back on the couch. "My hand was around her neck, and I had her up against the wall. Her feet didn't touch the ground, and she kicked like hell." He paused. Swallowed. Chuck closed his eyes, in that masochistic way he had when he forced himself to remember. "I can hear her gasp."_

"_So you finished it again."_

_And then, with a gesture that surprised her, he said, "No. My fingers just—" He glanced down at his fingers, at his palm. "I released her. And she slid down to the floor. She was crying, just sobbing, like a kid. That's how I left her."_

"_You left her alive."_

_And even with the best training she could not hide the surprise in her voice. Chuck caught the hitch in her statement and focused on it. "I left her alive."_

The smell was overpowering, heady.

Blair Waldorf opened the door and Nate's eyebrows shot up at the sight in front of him. The room was an explosion of flowers. She blinked up at him, flustered at the unexpected arrival. Nate frowned at the sight. She stepped aside to let him step inside. He looked around him and saw the flowers that filled the small space.

"Wow," was all he could say.

Lilies. Pure white lilies. All around him there were lilies and they were sublime. There was not a streak of any other color on those petals. Atop every table, on every cabinet, even on the bed there were lilies. And then, like an odd pattern black roses popped here and there in a disturbing sea of perfect lilies.

"I didn't know you were coming." She took her coat from the chair and slid it on.

"After that phone call, you really didn't think I'd come."

And the look on her face told him exactly that. Then she said to him, "Get me out of here."

So he did, and they walked briskly away as if escaping from a burning building. Nate placed a reassuring hand on her back and she flinched. And he grabbed her hand and stopped her, because they were walking too fast, too far. "What's going on, Blair?" he asked.

She shook her head, and through their time together he had slowly learned to read her the way he never could when they were still happy. "Just… walk. Walk, Nate. I can't stay in the room. The smell—it's too much. I can't breathe."

"What?" he said lightly, letting out a small laugh. "Those flowers? We can get rid of them." He jerked his head back towards the dorm. "Let's go."

But she stood her ground and dug her heels. "No!"

"Who are the flowers from, Blair?"

She shook her head. "I don't know," she whispered, and he could tell she did not. "Let's just leave."

And it was then that he began to truly be concerned. The laughter fled from his eyes. He grasped her shoulders, then held tightly enough so that she would feel some hurt and look at him. "Did something happen in your room last night?"

She tried to extricate herself, but failed. "Have coffee with me. Or we can go to the library. Or shopping."

When he received the call, he had thought it was a drunken call. Blair had been known to dial drunk in those few occasions in high school, and a sobbing apology had been just the perfect scenario. Nate had taken a car to NYU to poke a little fun, only to be greeted by this. "Coffee," he decided, because it had the best chance of discovery.

When they were seated in the small college coffeehouse, Nate brought her an espresso and sipped his own. He watched her blow at the cup and take a little sip of the brew.

"About your call," he began.

Her lashes lowered, and she hid her eyes from him. "I meant it. I'm sorry."

"I'd be more overwhelmed if I didn't know this has more to do with Chuck than with me," Nate said with a small smile.

She glared at him, and Nate could only stare at her lips that pouted and glistened just a little. She could not know what those lips looked like to a man who had tried so many but always ended up staring at the pair that left him a little too early. "This isn't a game, Nate. This isn't some cat and mouse chase."

"It didn't feel like a game when you dumped me on the dance floor at my senior prom," he said softly, and as expected her face fell a million miles. "Look, I'm sorry I brought it up," he told her. "But you brought it up when you called me."

She eyed his hand when it covered her own on top of the table.

"You realized how much it hurt," Nate continued. "So I know that cry for help is not about me. It's about Chuck."

"It's unfair. A breakup without any explanation." She looked him in the eye, and said, "Didn't you ever wonder?"

"I'll be honest with you." And he saw her prepare for a blow of guilt so devastating and destructive. But he was not there to give it to her. He said, "What you feel right now, and what I felt back then aren't the same."

"I didn't give you any reason," she said, her voice trailing off.

"Come on, Blair. Let's be honest. I know that you knew—I'd known for weeks before the prom." He chuckled. "Hell, I knew since before we started dating. So yeah, it's different from yours."

And then she asked him the question he always dreaded she would ask. But the time had come, and had no escape. So he braced himself for the impact.

"Why did he break up with me, Nate?" she whispered.

And he returned, because he had to believe she would respect him enough to allow it, with a deflection. "Who are the flowers from, Blair?"

And her answer sent a cold thread of chill down his spine.

"They were all around me when I woke up."

He dropped her off at her class, and she wrapped her arms around him before they parted. Nate breathed in the smell of her hair, because it was familiar and he recently had little chance to do so. He kissed her on the forehead, and she closed her eyes and sighed, and for one second it reminded him that once upon a time she loved him.

Before they parted, he glanced inside the yawning auditorium where the best and the brightest could get lost in the crowd. This was safe, and this had become to her a haven. Here she could fade away the way she had always been afraid to do. But now—now anonymity best served her.

There was a girl, or two, who watched them with jealousy, and he basked in the attention enough to hold her just a little bit longer to see how the girl would react. He winked at the girl, who blushed at his bold move.

Nate would find himself getting lost in NYU a few more times this semester, he thought.

On the fourth row, Dan Humphrey raised a hand and waved, so Nate nodded at him. A few rows up and Nate glimpsed a blonde man who watched quietly, face expressionless.

He walked away from the auditorium after Blair had made her way to sit beside Dan Humphrey. Nate took his phone from his pocket, then called.

The distinctive series of beeps was not lost on him. It sounded in the quiet, empty corridor. He raised his head and turned towards the direction of the noise, only to find Chuck standing at the end of the hall. Nate dropped the phone back into his pocket and strode towards his friend. He grabbed the lapels of Chuck's jacket, then jerked him forward.

"What the hell, man?"

Chuck locked his jaw, did not respond.

"You're going to drive her crazy!" Nate spat. "Is that what you want, Chuck? Do you want her to go insane like you?"

And Chuck answered, and he drew it long, and quietly, and even the sadness would not pierce through the haze of petrified fury that had long since paralyzed him since he imagined how Blair slept through the intrusion in her bedroom. "All I've done is try and keep her safe."

"Then what are you still doing in her life?"

Chuck drew in air, then rested his gaze on Nate. "It isn't easy," he said.

"Then it's hard," Nate said, "but you do it. This was your decision, so fucking do it and don't play with her head like this." With a huff of frustration, Nate released Chuck and strode away.

"I'm doing my best!" Chuck called after him.

Nate stopped. "Did you go to her room last night?" he demanded.

The guilt was right there on his face. The evidence crept like sunstroke from his neck to his ears. "I needed to see her."

Nate shook his head. "Then you are even more of a selfish bastard than I thought."

"Where are you going?"

"To clean up your mess," Nate said. It would take more than the rest of the morning, he knew, more than the afternoon. But he could start with the flowers. White lilies and black roses. Sick bastard.

"_Should I celebrate now?" he said, his voice tight. "Should I throw a fucking party that I left her slumped on the floor, gasping for breath. The bruises around her neck were shaped like my fingers!"_

"_You left her alive. Consider that, Chuck."_

_Countless nights of murder and then one night he left her fighting for her life, and it was the most special thing in the world. He hated therapy. Hated it with every fiber of his being._

"_Fantastic. She's alive. This time I managed to stop a second before she suffocated. What a brilliant success," he drawled. "What do you want me to do now?" _

_And she cocked her head to the side. She lifted her pencil from the pad, then tapped the eraser at the end on her lips. She considered his question, then informed him, "It's time to let her know."_

"_Hell. No."_

_He shook his head, because really—How do you describe what he had seen? How does one share what he had done?_

_How do you turn 'I love you' into this?_

She returned to her seat after the group activities wrapped up and the professor rattled off the reading assignment for the next session. Dan picked up her books and handed them to her. Blair grabbed the stack and Dan saw the folded piece of paper flutter from the bottom of her book and drift down to the floor.

"What's that?"

Dan knelt and reached for the paper, which was blown by the air conditioner. He shook his head and went down on all floors, then caught the paper from under the seat before him.

"Someone's got a heavy hand," Dan commented when he felt the indentations on the back of the note. He handed it to Blair, who unfolded the note and read through the statement. He heard the sharp intake of breath, and spied the slight tremor of her hand. "Hey what is it?" he asked, expecting some nasty remark from one of Georgie's last remaining college friends. Dan took the paper. His eyes narrowed.

'Who was that guy, Blair?'

She forced a smile. "Who can blame them?" she said rhetorically. "Nate's always been a pretty boy." Blair looked up and scanned through the faces in the class, all one hundred eighty of them. She swallowed. "So someone took an interest in Nate. Wish she'd written down her number so I can have Nate ask her out."

"I'm going to keep this," he told her, and slid the note inside his pocket.

"Knock yourself out," she answered. Blair made her way out the room, and glanced behind her and around so many times Dan wondered how they made it out of the room in time for the next class to begin.

"You should talk to someone about this," he suggested.

"Why?"

Dan frowned. "What do you mean, why?" He had learned his lesson with Georgina. He was never going to let anything like this slip so easily, would not let it be ignored.

"What can they do to me, write me a million little notes until I get irritated?" she responded lightly.

Dan caught her elbow. She stopped, turned to face him. He told her somberly, "People get killed over things like this."

"Is that it?" she replied softly. "You are so dramatic, Humphrey."

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: **I was possessed to write something else today. But I am exercising a small amount of control and keeping myself to this until it's finished. Then I'll finish Dark Prince soon. Hopefully. Medieval England is calling…

**Part 6**

_For someone who was about to commit murder, he was disturbingly calm. _

_The limo parked outside the building. He checked his watch, knew she was about to float down the stairs in. He straightened in the leather seat when she emerged, and she was in the dirty white gown she had worn to the debutante ball, complete with the large ribbon atop her left shoulder and the slit that came midway up her thighs. It was wildly inappropriate. At this hour she would be on her way to Art History, and NYU already scoffed at her branded accessories. But no one on the sidewalk seemed to notice._

_Of course. He was only dreaming._

_She stopped right on the bottom step. Blair met his eyes. Impossibly enough. The vehicle was parked across the street and his windows were tinted. But she met his eyes, and his heart tore at the need she did not hide. Never hid. Even when she asked him if it was a game, and the shadow of Nate hung over them, she never hid that he only needed to say the word and she would be completely his._

_In this nightmare, he knew he would kill her. And somehow, the look in her eyes told him that she knew it too._

_Blair Waldorf dressed to die._

_For that, at least, he paused. _

_His phone rang, and he lifted it to his ear to see her watching him. "I love you," she said again, a broken record. Broken enough that the edges still cut at his throat._

"_Doesn't make a difference," he replied, and it was no lie._

_He placed down the wooden box that contained his father's collector pistol. He kept his eyes on her when the malcontents flooded from every direction and made their way up the steps to her building. And for a long moment she was lost in the crowd. He dropped the call, waited until the interminable flow of the masses would thin. Waited until he had no more patience and he moved to open the car door._

_It did not budge. Chuck pulled and pushed and cursed, but the limo door remained shut. When he looked up again, the last of the students entered the building, and there she was, standing, looking back at him with her lips parted in surprise._

_Her gloved hands were clasped before her, over her stomach. And then, slowly, her hands fell away. _

_And on her dress he could see the bright blood bloom._

He shot up from the couch in a sweat, his heart hammering in his chest. His hand reached out beside him, as if he could yet ram onto the tinted glass and crash his way out of the fucking prison of the limousine.

She was all alone. Out there, bleeding out, gloriously hateful as the most beautiful person he had ever seen. When she fell, it was in a mess of dark curls spilling out of her chignon, in a thick gathering of cloth, and it was slower and slower, the bright blood darker and darker.

And for all his denials, when her body hit the ground, all he wanted was to touch her.

_If I touch you I'll kill you._

And only belatedly did he realize he had dozed off on the couch as if he was a hobo like Rufus. Coming back from NYU and all he could do was drag himself to Lily's. It was only because he needed to tell Serena that he had seen Blair, owed her the update for sharing Dan's frantic message. But Serena had already been asleep by the time he arrived, and Lily had sniffed the scotch in his breath.

"It doesn't matter," he had insisted in that disreputable hour.

But when Lily led him to the room that had once been his—still his, his stepmother insisted—Chuck stopped still at the memory of the night that he and Blair crept to that bed in the summer, gleefully shedding clothes pretending they were still juniors and they never pushed each other away. She had been unforgettable. She had thrown back her hair in an abandon he doubted she ever had with Nate, and had branded herself in his brain. She had made herself part of every piece of that room. And he wished to God that she could be forgettable.

Just tonight that he was so tired, he wished he could make her forgettable.

And so a second after Lily went to bed, Chuck was out the door and settling into the less memorable couch.

"What are you talking about?" Serena said in a hushed whisper. He heard the muffled noise as his stepsister stumbled to the foyer. Chuck stood and watched as Serena jumped on one foot as she clasped the ankle strap of one stiletto. "Are you sure?"

And then, in a firmer voice, she continued, "Is anyone else there?"

And if only for the dream, with its faint traces still taunting him, Chuck strode to the corridor where Serena could see him. Serena looked up, and he could see the fear in her eyes. He reached out a hand, silently asking for the phone.

But she was Blair's best friend first. Serena shook her head. Chuck locked his jaw.

And she was his stepsister second.

Clearly, she said to Blair, as much as she said to him, "So you think someone's been following you."

His back stiffened.

"Did he keep it? Did he show it to campus police?"

Chuck grabbed Serena's arm, then said quietly as Serena held her hand over the mouthpiece, "Tell her to stay exactly where she is."

"Blair," Serena said into the phone, and it was all he could do not to snatch the phone from his stepsister. He needed to keep her on the phone, needed to keep the connection alive. She needed to keep the call alive. "Where are you going?"

And that was when he took the handset from Serena's grasp. "Stay where you are," he barked into the phone.

And he heard her, and she was breathing, fast and shallow. She was terrified, and he was miles away. And his heart clenched a little at the disbelief in her voice when she gasped his name. "I can't stay there," she breathed into the phone. And it did not even matter to him that he had no idea where she had been, cared only that she was speaking. "I could feel someone watching me. I checked, but there wasn't anyone behind the shelves. But someone was watching me, Chuck."

He pulled the door open, gave instructions for Serena to send the limo driver down. Chuck raced to the elevator and heard the rapid breathing on the other line, knew better than to ask when it was obvious to him. "I'm coming," he assured her.

And now, finally, he felt the thunderous nerves, heard them in his ears. Serena hurried behind him and Chuck dove for the elevator, hit the close button without waiting for his stepsister. Serena glared at him when she barely made it inside.

He heard the click, then glanced the screen and cursed. "The line's dead," he muttered, then kicked at the silver door. "Shit! Useless reception," he cried.

Serena grabbed her phone and started dialing again. "What happened? Where is she?"

Chuck rested his knuckles on his forehead. "She's running," he said quietly.

His stepsister blinked at the phone. He reached for his own and dialed Blair's number, only to wait for the interminable ringing. Serena looked up at him, then announced, "I'm calling Dan."

The elevator doors opened and Chuck strode out. He dialed Nate's number, then was grateful when it was answered. "Archibald," he said quickly.

"Hey, Chuck. Glad you called."

"Are you still in the university?"

"Close," Nate answered. "I'm in the ER."

Useless. The one person he had on location and Chuck could not even put him into action. "Can't you get out of there? There's something urgent I need you to see to."

Nate groaned, and Chuck winced. "I wish I could, man. They're not going to release me for a couple of hours to see if I've got a concussion. And I have a broken wrist that they need to set."

"Jesus, what the hell happened to you?" Chuck muttered, more for an explanation than concern.

"I was attacked a couple of hours ago," Nate shared. "I was hanging out at the coffeeshop. When I was making my way back to my hotel, these frat guys—I don't even remember which one, but they looked to me like they were some sort of pledge group—attacked me and took my wallet."

Chuck hung up and turned towards his stepsister. "Humphrey?" he demanded.

"He's not answering his phone," Serena stated.

Chuck shook his head and pushed open the building door himself, not bothering to wait for the night doorman. He stepped out into the street and waited for the driver to pull up.

"_Have you thought about it, Chuck?"_

"_Haven't thought about much of anything else," came his smooth answer._

"_Good. I'd like to see her tomorrow."_

_And so he told her, because it would be the most honest thing to do. There was no sense in lying. She already knew the most shameful truths of all. "I'm not taking her here. You're not going to meet her. I'm never going to come close to her."_

"_That troubles me."_

_Such a silly, pretentious way to say you disapproved. "I'm never going to go up to her. Distance is good," he shared. "If I stay away from her, it'll be hard to hurt her."_

"_Alright, Chuck," the therapist said. "The farther you are, the better off she'll be."_

"_That's what it all means," he said. He ran his fingers through his hair. "You don't think I've looked this up? I've been trying to find out what it's all about." He sucked in his breath, then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "I'm not going to wake up one day to find out I've really killed her."_

"_There's a reason why I'm a psychiatrist and you're not," the woman said, lightly, almost as if the whole thing was a joke. And Chuck hated it. He despised it when she could treat it like it did not matter because this was the most terrifying thing in the world. "Stress can manifest itself in many ways."_

"_Don't feed me with bullshit pop psychology. You're far too expensive for that. This isn't as simple as stress. I can't just take a pill for this, or call a masseuse to work out the tension." _

"_You hate her," she said. He glared at her. She nodded. "Someone once killed his entire family in one nightmare, and he told it was because he hated them. So you find pictures of her with someone else, and you hate her and you want her dead."_

_He used a colorful string of words._

_She shrugged, unfazed by the vulgar language. "Another patient of mine—and you'll forgive the lack of names. Doctor-patient confidentiality. He dreamed of killing his wife too. He'd fallen for one of his students," she shared. "You want out. But you couldn't think of a way to do it, so your mind retreats to murder," she concluded. "I have to say, Chuck, that would require more therapy to help you find a way to express yourself."_

_And that had been completely foul to his ears. He slid his hand to his pocket and took out a folded piece of worn glossy paper, then tossed it to the table between them. She plucked it from the table and unfolded it._

"_It took a long time. And I'd had it engraved with the date. I was supposed to use it the month after the nightmares began."_

_She folded it again and placed it on the table. Chuck reached for it, then slid it in his breast pocket. "So you didn't want out," she allowed. And Chuck swore the next time she even insinuated it he would make her eat the damn DeBeers cutout. "Then you're another of my patients. You feel that everything is going out of control. It can be that simple, Chuck."_

_A lack of control. Six months in hell, and this was what she could tell him—he hated her, he wanted out, or his mind was acting out for loss of control. He paused, then said to her, "Do you know what it's like to constantly be afraid that you're going to kill the person you love most?"_

_The therapist looked him in the eye, then put down her pen and notepad on the side table. "So that's your decision. You're going to stay away."_

"_That's the best thing for both of us."_

If he stayed away, if he did not touch her, she was going to be safe.

That was the deal he made with himself, the deal he made with whatever force made those dreams so real in his head.

A hand rested on his back, and Chuck turned bright eyes at the sympathetic face of his sister. "What the hell is she doing out at this hour?" he hissed, and it was a way to release the tension that coiled at his nape. "The library? When we find her, will you tell your best friend that she doesn't even need a college degree? She doesn't need to spend the entire night studying."

Serena's hand rubbed circles on his back. She shook her head. "She didn't want to stay in her room," Serena told him. "She said someone's been there."

~o~o~o~o~

When he caught her, she screamed. Jack held fast to her arms and squeezed. She stumbled to a stop, and he looked down at her terrified eyes.

"Hey! What are you running away from?"

She moved to pull away from him, but he held fast. "Let go," she commanded.

At once, his fingers loosened and she was free. She took several steps back from him. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"I was waiting for you," Jack explained. He sighed. "Look, I really think we should sit down and talk."

She looked at him as if his proposal was preposterous. "What do we have to talk about, Jack? You ruined my life."

"I cared about you," he insisted, because to hell if he had not. It could have been so easy to find someone else.

Her eyes narrowed at him, and he was taken aback by the sharpness of her tone when she asked, "Have you been following me?"

Blair pushed by him, and Jack shuddered at the rough contact. For the quick moment when she passed by him he leaned down and caught a whiff of her scent. "I want to talk to you, Blair."

Instead, she hurried up the steps. Jack sighed, then walked briskly after her. She glanced back at him, and Jack was determined to sit through one full conversation. She quickened her pace. When they were on her floor she would relax, and she could listen. She would give him a chance. She gave Chuck a million chances. In her hurry she stumbled on one step, and he reached up to help her right herself. She elbowed his arm aside and ran up the steps. Jack looked up and jogged after her.

She looked back at him as if he was the most terrifying person in the world. When they reached her floor, he heard her audible sigh of relief at the sight of a young man waiting outside her door.

"Jeff," she breathed. "What are you doing here?"

And even as she asked the question she was edging closer to the strange young man, and away from Jack. He held up a cup of coffee, and Jack belatedly realized it was almost morning. Blair reached for the cup, and Jack saw her hand tremble.

"I wanted to apologize for the other night," the blonde said. "Everyone tells me I acted like an ass."

Blair glanced back at Jack. Jack's eyes narrowed at the stranger. He stepped forward and extended a hand. "I'm afraid Blair's manners have taken a temporarily leave," he said. With a smile, he shook Jeff's hand. "I'm Jack Bass."

"Jeff March," said the young man. He turned back to Blair and said, "I don't remember a whole lot of that party, but I do remember you were my date."

"That's—flattering," she said with an ironic twist to her tone. "To be remembered as 'the date.'"

The blonde was some strange asshole who cared nothing about a woman's self-esteem. Blair Waldorf made everything unforgettable, and Jeff March could only say she was the date. Jack sidled up towards her, then murmured into her ear, "I remember more than that about you. I remember every detail of that night."

She pulled away immediately. "Jeff, I'm exhausted. I should sleep for a bit before my class which is," she checked her watch, "in four hours." She glanced at Jack. "And if you can take Mr Bass with you please."

"Of course." And then Jeff stepped close and took her hand. "Let me make up for the worst date of your life. Let me buy you dinner." And then, he said, "Come on. A girl like you shouldn't be alone on a Friday night."

Her eyes shifted to him, and Jack nodded. She turned back to Jeff. "I can't. You're right. It was the worst date, and I'm glad Dan Humphrey was there. I mean—drugs?"

"It was the party, and everyone was slipping some left and right."

"Still—You understand, don't you?"

And Jeff replied, "Of course."

The hitch in that voice was miniscule, hard to detect, completely odd. It was only the faint change in his intonation. Jack said to the blonde, "Let's go."

"_This is the first time you called me."_

"_You're at home. I know how to respect that."_

_Growing up with a father who was barely around, he had demanded the same of the people that he paid. And it was only the few wonderful months with Blair that he learned what it meant to spend time, completely, without reservations, without any other taking precedence, with someone you loved._

"_Well, when I gave you my home number, I really meant that you can call me any time."_

_He gave a humorless chuckle. "So I'm that bad off."_

"_Tell me. Why did you call in the middle of the night? Did you regress?"_

_It had only been that afternoon that he told her that he left her alive. "How do you qualify that?"_

_And the therapist said, "Did you kill her again?"_

"_I came home," he related, while the nightmare was still fresh in his mind, "and I could smell the takeout warming in the oven. The water was running. I think—I think it was the tv that was playing in the background." And he knew she was bracing herself to hear about the next method he used in his nighttime murder. Instead, he said, "So I called her name. When she didn't come, I went looking for her in the bedroom."_

"_She wasn't there?"_

"_No. She was in the bathroom. I saw the dress I bought for her for our trip to Italy hanging on the doorknob."_

"_She was going to wear it."_

"_She was in the tub—" he cut in. "She was in the tub and her arm was lying outside dripping blood." He caught his breath, choking out the words and failing. "When the blood is running, when it's dripping, it's a sign of life, isn't it? I knew. I knew she was still alive." He sucked in. "And I couldn't move. I knew what I had to do. I had to stop the blood with her clothes, with my hand. And she was sinking in the water and I had to pull her out."_

"_Chuck," she said his name firmly, jarring him from the memory._

"_I couldn't move," he admitted. "I couldn't touch her."_

"_That," she breathed, "is different."_

_And he wondered why he could not believe himself, when he knew it was true—"I didn't kill her."_

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: **So the entire weekend I was brushing up on my Elizabethan history, and bought two new reference books. The entire Sunday I was outlining the plot of the first ten parts of the next CB historical I'm doing. Hope that makes up for the delay.

Now I need to psych myself back into the language of this story. This is second to the last part, and kudos to those of you who named the stalker way before the revelation.

**Part 7**

Perhaps he should have left, but leaving meant admitting defeat. If there was one thing the Bass men were proud of, it was with the single-minded determination they possessed once they honed in on a goal. Bart definitely had it, and had used it to his advantage in the pursuit of business and women. Fortune once described his brother as a predator in a sea of corporate preys. For the life of him, Jack could not place a finger on exactly how he could have the same unrepentant drive to possess as much ruthless drive as Bart when it came to taking what he wanted.

Despite his youth, Jack could tell the same flickered inside Chuck. Still, a lack of focus would ultimately be Chuck's downfall. And while that Achilles' heel was raw and exposed, he determined to utilize the weakness before Chuck could fix it. It was only a matter of time, after all, when Chuck grew into Bart's shoes, and bore down everything in his path.

Judging from the way she appeared when he saw her last, Chuck Bass had started down the path.

She had said four hours before her next class, and so three hours later he stood outside her building. The curtains of her window parted, and he raised his head to see clearly. She saw him and the curtains drew shut.

It was mere moments later that she appeared at the entrance of the building and strode towards him. He straightened and walked towards her, because she deserved to be met halfway.

"No," she said sharply. "Stay there."

And he stopped, did not care that her voice was harsher than he cared for. "So you're ready to talk," he said.

Blair flushed with anger. She walked up to him, showing him that she was not afraid. "Get out of here, Jack," she said firmly.

"No way," he breathed into her face.

She stumbled back in disgust. "You're drunk."

"Jack," she began. "I'm tired, and I'm wrung out. Why can't you just stop?" And then, "I'm trying to move past all this."

"You act like I've actively tried to keep you from something," he said. "I haven't done anything than try to talk to you."

"By following me?" she demanded.

He frowned. "What?"

"I'm done, Jack. In fact, we never started. It was one mistake, and believe it or not, I've paid for it a hundred times over," she said firmly. "So stop following me. Stop the flowers. Stop the notes."

"What are you talking about?" Because to hell if he would be accused and sued for something he had no part over. "You are not going to slap me with absurd charges, are you?"

She shook her head, and he could the disbelief in her eyes. He grasped her upper arm and pulled her against him. "I don't know what you're babbling about, Blair. What – are you going to accuse me of some grand crime again?"

"Go to hell, Jack," she muttered. Blair tried to pull her arms away again, but he would not budge.

He bent down to capture her lips, but found her cheek instead. His lips roamed over her face as he searched for her mouth. Blair turned her face away. And she was brave. Her eyes spit fire at him, and she was only brave because of where they were. This was why she made him stay, did not cover the conversation somewhere else when he knew she craved the privacy of buildings after years worth of having an entire school watching her every move. "Look around you, Jack. Joggers, students, bystanders—"

He looked up and indeed saw four pairs of eyes from each direction already watching in curiosity. "I haven't done anything wrong. All I wanted was a chance to talk to you again."

"Jack, stop it! Don't lie anymore. I'm not getting Chuck back," she said softly. "I understand that."

"Even if you did, you will be dreading every day because you don't know when he will turn to you and tell you it's over."

"You don't know who you're dealing with," she said. His words carried no weight, not if he judged by the look in her eye. She turned around to walk back to her building, but his hand only tightened around her arm. She tried to pull away, but he held firm.

"Do you really think I'm afraid of my nephew?"

Her eyes narrowed at him. "He's not the one you should be afraid of."

He looked over her shoulder at the black limousine that slowed as it approached them. The door opened and Chuck stepped out of the car from one side and Serena van der Woodsen from the other. He could see the way she looked over, almost felt the change in the depth of her breath. Chuck kept his eyes away from her and for a moment, Jack knew she needed to be held.

"Serena. Will you please take Blair up to her room?" Chuck instructed his stepsister.

"I'm not an invalid," she muttered. "Maybe it's been too long since we were together, since you last looked at me like I was a person, Chuck, and you've already forgotten. I can do things by myself," Blair snapped.

And so, as if forced, Chuck turned his gaze on Blair. "Please," he said. "Prepare for class. You have one in less than an hour."

The imprint of Jack's hand was red and raw on her arm. Chuck waited until Serena and Blair made their way across the street, until they vanished into the building, before he turned back to his uncle. Quietly, keeping a cool head because a flaring temper would not assist in the situation, Chuck said, "I will sell my shares. I've been planning that for weeks. If you really want my father's company, that's your in."

Jack chuckled. "And where do you think I'd get the money to buy you out?"

"So what do you want, Jack?"

"I can earn my way into your board," he told Chuck. "Give me four meetings with them and I assure you, I will be back in their good graces. I can take the helm with the little shares I managed to get while your father was alive."

Chuck considered the words. There was not a second of doubt that Jack believed his words. Bass Pacific had been profit-organized, and it was only Bart's will that gave Chuck the better hand. If all was fair, and they had the same pool of money to utilize, Chuck knew enough that to admit that between the two of them Jack would come out on top.

"Then why aren't you doing it?" Jack glanced up towards the window, and saw the figure watching them. He turned back to his nephew. "We've always been selfish, but you, Chuck… you take the cake. You don't want her, but you can't conceive of the fact that someone else does."

"So you terrorize her in the middle of the night?" Chuck shook his head.

"I waited for her here because I wanted to talk."

"You're a liar. You chased her down from the library to her dorm."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "Is that what Blair told you?" He cursed under his breath. "No wonder she was terrified."

"I'm warning you now, Jack. I will come after you, and I won't stop until the little shares you have on my father's company are so useless you're going to beg for cash out." Chuck scoffed. "And don't pretend you're not the one stalking her."

"How many times should I tell you it's not me before you believe it?" Jack demanded. "I was waiting right here. You want to confirm my story? Go and ask Blair to call her the guy who was waiting inside her building. He said he was the president of some elite fraternity on campus. That's right, Chuck. She's moving on. Call him and he's going to tell you that I was already here before he arrived."

Chuck turned his back on his uncle and climbed up the steps to Blair's room. When he entered, Blair turned from the window to face him. Serena stood up from the bed with her phone in her hand.

"I should check on Dan," Serena mumbled. "He still hasn't responded to any of my texts." And then, hesitatingly, she asked, "Will you two be—will you—"

"We'll be fine," he assured his sister.

The door closed behind Serena. Blair asked, "Will we, Chuck?" But it was such a pregnant question that even Chuck could not touch it. "I was handling the situation with Jack."

"I don't know what's going on, Blair. But let me help you," he pleaded. But he was by the door, and she was by the window, with the entire expanse between them. He would do it without touching her, if that was in any way possible.

"I would rather you didn't." She shook her head, and Chuck saw the tears make their way down her cheeks. He wanted to brush them away for her, needed to press his lips on hers. He needed to kiss her, because kissing her was his best way to show her everything he could not say. But even that had been taken away.

"You can't just barge into my life when you want to, and ignore me when you want," she whispered.

He wondered if it showed through his eyes, or his voice, the suffocating helplessness he felt when he responded to her. "You don't understand."

"Make me," she begged.

"I'm scared."

And she stepped forward. He winced. Every inch she was closer was the closer they became to every one of those nightmares. "Of hurting you," he admitted. He met her eyes, waited. This was the therapist's big idea, one that he had tried as much as possible to avoid. But there as no way he would leave her now, all alone, with a threat looming above her head.

"You were my whole world," she said, her voice hitching with emotion.

"Don't tell me you weren't mine." Hell, even now, when they were no longer together, when he no longer lost himself inside her body, she was the universe.

"When you left me, it was over. Done."

And when she spoke like that, it could have sounded empty. But he knew every single strand of that feeling, experienced it firsthand. And somehow, hearing those words he was afraid. If to him this translated to dreams of murder, he wondered how it translated to her. They were much too alike to believe it would be nothing more than tears. "Done," he repeated.

"All of it, Chuck," she said softly.

She would leave him cold, and it would not be because she killed him. "You're alive," he said, because he needed to hear it, even from his own lips. If he could not touch her, he would do everything else to assure himself of that.

"Am I?" she breathed. "I don't feel a thing."

Like a ghost she glided towards him, moved to touch him, her lips parting ever so slightly in what he recognized as a kiss. He waited with bated breath. When she was close—so achingly close—he took the chance. "I dream," he said. "I dream I kill you."

She paused, her eyes flickering as he met his guilt-ridden, apologetic ones. He counted a lifetime when they were stuck in that impasse.

Finally, she spoke.

"You killed me when you left me."

His eyes narrowed. She moved closer to kiss him, and he committed the cardinal mistake of touching her. He was to hold her off, but the split second his skin touched hers he felt the immediate thrill run through his vessels and settle in his heavy heart.

"Didn't you hear me?" he rasped. "At night, Blair, I dream of killing you."

She nodded. "Don't we all?" she replied.

"What did you say?" he demanded.

But Blair pulled away from him this time and turned her back on him. She piled her notebooks, her books into a neat file. Occasionally she brushed a hand to her face.

"What the hell did you say, Blair?" he said in a firm voice. He heard her. He heard her well, but he would refuse to believe it. His last nightmares flashed before his eyes—when she fell on the steps as crimson blood stained the front of her debutante ballgown, the sight of her in the tub, the pool of blood staining the tiles.

He had been killing her the last six months that the two seemed so incongruent.

And she turned around to face him, her eyes now dry. She gave him a small, proper, forced smile. "I should go. Lock up when you leave?" she requested. "Or feel free to stay around."

"Dammit, Blair, you're not leaving now. You need to talk to me!"

Her eyes narrowed. She hugged her books to her chest. Chuck recognized the spark of anger in her eyes, relished it. For the moment he woke her up. "How dare you?" she cried out. "What makes you think you have the right to demand anything from me?" she exclaimed in disbelief.

"You don't drop something like that and walk out," he said.

"That's exactly what you did to me when you broke it off—when you broke us." And that was how it was. When he broke up with her, he broke her. He broke himself. "Don't you remember how you left me, Chuck? You turned me into a pathetic and depressive mess."

But she could not, should not fault his choices. She should know the sacrifice he had made. "I did it for you," Chuck answered. She scoffed. "I did it because I wanted to make sure I wouldn't hurt you."

Blair shook her head. "You're a coward," she said. Chuck winced at the word. She had not been the first to use it. But this was the first time she said it to his face. "I begged you to tell me why, and now you're telling me. You're scared of nightmares!" She took a few calming breaths. "They're not real, Chuck."

"They were real to me," he said hoarsely. "And I made sure you'd stay alive."

"No," she said coldly. "You made sure I couldn't ever get over you."

"What are you talking about?"

"I asked for a reason, Chuck. If you have me anything, even a lie, then I could take that and I could move on with my life. I could have developed a healthy anger for you, and I could have moved on. But no, every time I wanted you, you pushed me away. When I thought I could take it from there, you happened."

Chuck looked back at the breakup, at the occasions that he arrived. He had not touched her, not spoken to her, followed her life from afar. But he had come back when Jack came around. In his mind, there was no doubt that he was going to come.

"If you wanted to let me go, you would let me go. Let me sink by myself. Let me make mistakes."

"And that will make you happy?"

She chuckled, a humorless little laugh, and the sound was cold and grating. "I'll be happy when I find someone who's going to love me back. That's how pathetic I am. That's how pathetic I always was. Waiting for Nate to love me, waiting for you—" She shook her head. "Two years of my life, Chuck. What a waste."

Chuck flinched, and turned away so she would not see the effect her words had on him. "It won't be difficult to find someone who'll love you."

"You asshole!" she muttered.

Blair picked up her purse from the bed, then straightened and pulled herself up. She looked back at him. Chuck regarded her from under his lashes. She opened the door to leave, then shut the door and looked back at him. "My phone," she said softly.

Chuck spied the phone on the table by the door. He took it and held it out to her. Her hand closed around the device and Chuck experienced that exhilarating thrill again.

He needed a thousand more sessions to get rid of that, and even then he wondered if he would succeed. Her eyes flew up to his and he knew she felt it too.

In a brisk movement he wrapped an arm around her back, then his hand wrapped around her nape. His fingers buried in the loose bun of her hair and he drew her against him. "God, I missed you," he rasped. Then, Chuck leaned down to take her lips. Her eyes closed and her mouth opened to receive his tongue. Chuck felt her tongue battle against his, felt the anger and the longing, thought this was like a shower of water to a man stuck in the desert for too long.

When they parted, he was weak and breathless, and he rested his forehead against hers.

He heard his phone ringing in the background.

Blair gasped as she tried to catch her breath. Then she stepped backwards. Chuck smiled tenderly at her. 'Pull away,' he told himself. 'Pull away before you do anything.' And he wondered if he could stay like this a few seconds more, because his hands only wanted to touch her, to tease her.

The flush on her cheeks was pleasure, not pain.

Maybe…

He swallowed. "Blair—" His cursed phone would not stop ringing. He needed to fix the voicemail settings, needed to shorten the forwarding when there was no answer. And he wondered why the hell his brain would latch on to that small detail when in fact, he should be voicing his thoughts for her. Maybe there was a way…

She stepped backwards, opened the door. "I don't want to hear it," she mumbled, then stepped out of the room.

Jack would hightail it back to New York, would not bother Blair while Chuck was around. For the moment, Blair was safe. Chuck slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out his phone. He saw the missed call and checked his voicemail.

"Chuck, I hope you're still with Blair," Serena said into the recording. "Dan wasn't answering so I asked for Vanessa to help me hunt him down. He's in the hospital. Someone ran him over last night. That's why he wasn't answering our call." A pause. "He's fine," she continued, as if that was information pertinent to Chuck. His stepfamily's stepbrother survived a hit and run. "Chuck, listen to me very carefully. He thinks he remembers a sticker on the windshield. Dan thinks he was run over by someone in Alpha Phi. He was going to pledge, but there was an incident at their house party—"

Chuck pulled the door open, and found a guy a couple of years older than him holding a bouquet of flowers. "Can I help you?" Chuck said, pausing the voicemail message.

The blonde man nodded his head, then thrust out the bouquet of white lilies towards Chuck. "I have a delivery for Blair Waldorf."

Chuck took the bouquet and informed him, "Let me leave it in the room. She already left for class."

"I figured," the blonde said.

"You did?"

"Most freshmen here have an eight o'clock."

"That's right," Chuck said. He took a twenty dollar bill from his wallet and offered it to the guy.

The young man waved it away. "I'm not a delivery guy. It's a favor for a friend."

"So you know Blair Waldorf?" Chuck asked.

"We have classes together. How about you?" The man grinned amiably. "You're not a familiar face around here."

"I don't go to school here." Chuck thrust out his hand. "But I enjoy meeting Blair's friends." The man shook his hand. "I'm Chuck Bass, Blair's boyfriend. It's nice to meet you…" he trailed off, waiting for the man to provide his name.

"Jeff," the guy supplied. "Jeff March."

"March. From March Productions." Jeff nodded. "You know," Chuck started, putting an arm around Jeff's shoulders, "I believe my dad's done business with yours. Maybe we can talk and explore some other opportunities between the two of us." Before Jeff could answer, Chuck added, "Let me just put these in water, and we can discuss."

Chuck closed the door and tossed the bouquet onto Georgina's empty bed. He dialed Blair's number, and sighed in relief when she answered. "Look, Blair, I know we left a lot of things in the air."

"Did we? I thought we were pretty clear."

"Just so we can avoid confusion," Chuck said into the phone, "I love you." She held her breath. He continued, "Everything else can remain undetermined for now. We'll work on them later, alright? But remember that—I love you."

It was barely a whisper, but she answered, "I love you too."

"Then you have to trust me," he said. "I want you to contact Serena and grab the limo. I want you in Manhattan. Wait for me at our place. I'll meet you there."

"Chuck, what's going on?"

"Trust me," he said again.

After the last six months, it was so much to ask. He waited nervously until she said, "I do."

"Good."

Chuck turned back to the door and stopped still when he saw it was ajar. He pulled it open and fixed a smile on his face for Jeff March, only to find the corridor empty.

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 8**

"_If I had time to sleep, I'd dream of Scylla."_

"_And Charybdis," his therapist offered. _

_It was almost morning, but the hour was unholy yet. But even though he claimed respect for her family time, Chuck was still Bart's son—enough that at this time, when he was rushing to Blair's side, he could set aside that courtesy and think to himself that he paid the woman enough to warrant four am calls._

_Serena eyed him from the other side of the limo. Chuck turned his gaze out the window, towards the streets where the lights were still as bright as if it were seven at night. She would hear. Serena would hear and she would tell Blair. God, he had not even decided if he wanted Blair to know. _

"_Not Charybdis. Are you supposed to imagine my dreams now?"_

_He felt Serena's gaze hot on the side of his face, wondered how much she could tell from one side of the conversation. _

"_Well, Chuck, this isn't exactly a dream you've had," she reasoned. "But please—why not Charybdis?"_

"_Because my head won't ever consider it. I'm not caught between two immovable things. I'm never going to be trapped by circumstances," he said, with a trace of pride, with a lot of pride. "If I stay with her, I will hurt her. If I don't—"_

_He closed his eyes, breathed deeply. _

"_If you don't—"_

_The blood on her gown. The blood in a sick pool on the tiles. _

_The sound of her voice, terrified, and she was breathless, running from shadows._

"_Fine," he threw back. "I'll dream of Charybdis. What do I do?" Chuck asked into the phone, not to his therapist. The woman knew that too. They had been discussing this for half a year not to know when she was only needed to listen._

"_Why don't you pass by the office this morning, Chuck?" she suggested gently. "I can push another session."_

_He licked his lips, then grunted his appreciation. "I'm not in the area," he said. And he had just answered his own question. He turned off the phone, then felt the hand on his arm. He closed his eyes, then lowered his forehead to rest on the tinted glass of the limousine._

"Are you sure?" Dan heard Serena say. "Because I can leave, B. I just need to wait for Rufus. He's due here in an hour at the most."

The pain was concentrated on his hip, but Dan managed to raise himself up on one elbow to see Serena looking out the window talking on the phone. It was bright out, already morning. He groaned when he realized that it had been hours since his accident and he had missed an Econ test.

"I mean, I can send the limo over. Where are you?"

Serena glanced at him, but Dan waved her back to her conversation while reaching for the glass of water on the side table. She hurried over and poured him a fresh glass.

"Only if you're really sure," she stated. "Well if he said ASAP, then I suppose that would be fine. I'll see you in a few hours?"

Dan muttered his thanks, then rested back on the bed again. "Blair?"

Serena nodded. "Chuck wants her to leave campus and go home," she shared.

"I'm going to have to agree with Chuck Bass on that one," Dan admitted, as if it were the worst thing in the world to have this in common with the other man. "Are they leaving together?"

"She couldn't wait until your dad arrived."

Dan protested at once. "I can stay here and wait with my dad."

"It's fine," Serena assured him. "Besides, she said her batt's dying so can't rendezvous with the limo." He knew the worry was still set in his brow. "She's hitching a ride with a friend—with one of your friends, I think. He offered her a lift to Manhattan."

"Who's she riding with?"

~o~o~o~o

Chuck Bass aged fifty years during the short ride from her dorm room to the street outside. It was only when he spotted Jeff March that his heart started beating again, and when he did it was a quick and heavy. The man strode like he had no care, and for that brief moment a triumphant rush came over him. She was on her way home, and he had March within sight.

"March!"

The blonde turned around and spotted him, and Chuck could almost hear a switch in his brain go off. "I thought we agreed to talk," he drawled at the man who was a couple of years her senior. Jeff March was taller, reeked Hollywood entertainment from every pore of his body and reminded him just a little of Nate in the way he carried himself. Didn't Serena mention that he was Blair's date to that party? Hell, he should have known she would have sunk back to the same old bad habits when he left her alone. "You don't just walk away from Chuck Bass."

He hoped the man heard the warning in his voice. Chuck Bass was never one to spoonfeed his threats to his victims, but he knew how to make them obvious.

Jeff stopped in his tracks, then ran his fingers through his hair. "Look man, I'm familiar with people like you." He eyed Chuck from his expensive Italian shoes to the hair that Chuck had barely combed—in his rush to NYU he had forgotten even to use the vanity kit in the limo. "Bass, right? Is that why your girlfriend agreed to go out on a date with me? Were you two scheming together? That's low."

The accusation threw him off, and Chuck's jaw ticked in his effort now to explode. Instead, he spat out, "What?"

"You're out to prove yourself. I'm here to study, not to be my father's messenger. I don't bring your proposals over. He has secretaries for that." And with those words, March stalked away from Chuck.

"Where are you going?" Chuck demanded. Either way, there was no rush. Blair and Serena would be safely at the back of the limo, and he had a hawk's eye over the man.

"None of your business." A blue convertible cruised towards them and March flagged it with a finger. Chuck's eye honed in on the logo stuck to the windshield. He knew enough of his Greek alphabet to conclude that it was the sticker that Dan described.

Chuck's eyes narrowed. The car stopped and March moved to get in. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "You drugged my girlfriend," he said menacingly.

"I apologized." March shook off Chuck's hand.

He apologized. And Blair had apologized a hundred times in his voicemail, to his face, and apologized for whatever it was she had done. Why did people apologize for all the wrong reasons? His next retort was caught in his throat when he pulled an arm back and slammed his fist into the blonde's nose. The convertible driver cursed and hopped out of the lowered car. Jeff March was sprawled back on the street.

Chuck took momentary satisfaction at the sight of the pretty back clutching his nose. When March pulled himself up his face was red and blood was smattered on his face.

The man looked a little less like Nate, a little more like the villains during the climax of the movies that March Productions released.

March's friend pulled the blonde up. Chuck's lips curled. "You are fucking insane!" he yelled at Chuck. The insult did not weigh on him. He had called himself that. Once, he thought his therapist called him that when Chuck pushed her enough. He once had daily nightmares detailing ever possible way he could murder the only girl he loved—the first girl he loved, the therapist corrected him once to which Chuck had replied, in his quiet, affectionate, offensive way, "_You're fucking insane._"

"I am," Chuck admitted.

And it was Blair and Jack and Serena and his own father. It was Lily and Dan and Nate. It was Jenny and Eric. It was the board. It was Queller. It was the doorman from the Palace. It was his accountant for the Empire.

"Why would you do that, man?" cried out the guy from the convertible.

Chuck wanted to ask him his name, so he could come up with an insult that rhymed. But it was not the time or place, so he called him Curly in his head. Blair was right. The people in NYU had no self-respect. If they did, Curly would have had his hair cut short before leaving home, and not cruised around the campus sporting ringlets springing from his scalp like Little Orphan Annie.

Chuck shook his head in disgust. He kept his gaze on March. "I know it's you." He gave a humorless laugh. "I might be out to prove myself, but everything I have is mine. Unlike you, I'm not waiting for the old man to croak. I've got all the resources I need. I can prove that you're the one stalking my girlfriend."

Curly handed March a handkerchief, and March wiped the blood off his face. "Stalking her," he repeated. "You have better imagination than the writers at the studio."

"Let's see what the police will say once they connect it all together. Just remember, March, you already admitted to the drink." Chuck drew out his own handkerchief and wiped off the blood from his knuckles. Then, he dropped the handkerchief on the sidewalk. Ridiculously enough, Curly picked up the cloth and threw it into the trash can.

Chuck turned away and walked.

"Wait!"

He turned around, saw Curly holding up his hand in a silent gesture. Chuck's gaze flickered over to March, then back at the newcomer. "What?"

Curly glanced at March, then at Chuck. "The drug wasn't even his," Curly explained. "He wouldn't know where to get it."

And whether the statement was reality, or a foolish attempt to salvage the fraternity he did not care. If you put enough fear into a person then he would not make the mistake of even looking at Blair—never again.

"I didn't know she had a boyfriend," March began.

Chuck scoffed. "What difference does that make?" he retorted. Because Blair could well have told him that she was single. She had been. She still was. "So you'll drug a single girl?" He was not up to speed with NYU culture. Truth be told, he did not care to be nor made an effort to be. But if the community thought was this radical, he needed to educated and quickly.

"I'm not the one who brought her to the party," March explained. "She wasn't exactly one of the popular girls that you just know. Someone brought her in to be my date, and she was hot." Chuck's hand fisted at his side. "It was Kyle—he's the social chair."

Party planner, Chuck translated in his head. Publicist, he thought, to be a little kinder.

"He's the one keeping tabs on her," Curly offered.

"Blair Waldorf's stepfather is Cyrus Rose," March said. "Her mother's designs are hitting the Red Carpet this year. He said she's the perfect girlfriend for the president."

Pimp, he amended.

Perfect for a big Hollywood producer's son, who was only here in NYU to study, not to prove himself to his father. Dickhead.

Chuck stepped forward and grasped March's arm. March winced and turned his face away as if bracing for another punch. "Where's Kyle?" he asked.

~o~o~o~o~

"Thank you," she said, and when she did her lips curved into that small, perfect smile that glistened the same way it did those few seconds after she sipped some Dom.

It was her favorite. He had two bottles at the back of the car, just in case. By some wonderful stroke of luck, it looked like he had some use for those bottles now.

"You're welcome," Kyle said. "And thank you for the company. The drive would have been boring without a pretty girl to talk to."

Her hands went to the seatbelt buckle. She frowned when it did not release. Even the frown was delightful. Her eyebrows drew together, and a wrinkle formed between them. She pouted, then looked up at him. "Is this broken?"

"It shouldn't be," he told her. "Then again, I haven't had anyone in that seat for a few months." And then he unsnapped his seatbelt and leaned over to her. She caught her breath. He heard it. She smelled nice. He had wondered what that scent was on her pillow, and now that he was close enough he recognized it. Michael Kohrs, Holiday Collection. It came in a nice glittering gold box. He wondered if he smelled the perfume or the lotion and decided it did not matter. He grabbed the buckle and slowly turned it in his hands, and the metal dug into her. She drew in her breath sharply.

"You know what, Kyle, I think I can manage that."

He looked up at her. "Let me," he told her. And slowly, she nodded. "You're a guest." She lowered her lashes as she watched his hands work on the buckle. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

And they glistened more now. His breath could touch her lips, and he faltered when he saw the skin slowly drying.

"Do you want something to drink?" he offered. "Looks like this would take some time."

"No, really," she answered. "I just want to get out of here."

That was offensive. Kyle took the buckle in one hand and pulled sharply, making her gasp and grab the door on one side and the hand brake on the other.

"There's some Dom at the back. I know how much you love it," he said. He should not have done it, but she should learn that some things just did not do. She was a Waldorf. Granted, it was not as fantastic as being a Harris or an Archibald. He doubted his father had heard of hers. But even a Waldorf probably had better manners. "I won't take no for an answer."

She smiled, and he was grateful that she finally got her wits together. "Why don't we take the Dom in the suite?" she suggested.

That would do. He pushed the control on the driver side door and with a click, the belt unsnapped. She sighed in relief, and Kyle took the bottles from the back.

~o~o~o~o~

Gaining access to the room was not difficult. With only a few months experience in fully dealing with investors and various shareholders, Chuck had already sharpened his skill in assessing people. With a few well-placed threats he found himself standing outside the room of a senator's son.

"Kyle!" Jeff March called.

When there was no answer, Chuck bit out, "Open it." No more wasting time. He had wasted enough on March. He needed to know if it was Kyle Harris before wasting more time on accusations. He threw open the door and looked around. Chuck strode towards the study table and pulled open the drawers. He then walked over to the closet and slid the doors to the side, then rooted around. He pushed the hangers to the side. He rifled through the sweaters and the vests.

"Man, don't rummage like that."

Chuck turned to Jeff March, then pointed out, "He'll know either way."

"So maybe it's not him. Look, Kyle's many things, but he's not a stalker."

Chuck pulled open the drawers and gave a look of disgust when he saw the socks and the underwear. He held his breath and he shoveled through them, causing balls of socks to fall on the floor. He grunted, then looked under the bed. When he found nothing, Chuck pulled himself up and caused the bed covers to slide away.

He smirked in triumph at the sight of the thin camera from under the bed. Chuck grabbed the cable from the study table and found the computer locked. Since he never claimed to be a computer wizard, he turned to the two men with him. Before he even barked his demand, Curly returned with his own laptop. Chuck connected the USB cable and waited for the window to pop up with his choices.

He chose to see a slideshow.

Curly put down the computer on top of the mussed covers of the bed. Chuck watched as the pictures turned from groups of students at a party—and had to remember that the congressman's son was the chair of the frat's social committee—to pictures taken from yards away. His eyes narrowed. Chuck hit the touchpad to stop the autoplay, then zoomed.

And there was his girlfriend. There was his ex-girlfriend. And he scrolled through dozens of candid shots of her entering the classroom, or walking by the shops. There were photos of Blair with Nate, before his attack. And there was a snapshot of Dan taking her back to his dorm.

She was in the library, looking over her shoulder.

Not even in his dreams, right before he killed her, had he seen her so scared.

First, it was Jack. And now it was a party planner from NYU. After this he swore that no one would disrupt her privacy again, not even if he had to install security for her to keep watch 24/7.

He slammed the screen shut, then turned around and strode out of the room. He tossed back his warning to the house, "The police will be here in an hour." March cursed behind him, and yelled about deals and agreements as if his word meant anything at all.

Chuck brought his phone up to his ear. He dialed her number, and listened to her voice give him recorded instructions on leaving voicemail. He noted the text message waiting in his inbox, then clicked to display.

'N my way bak to Palace. C u ther. Take d limo. Hitchd a ryd with clasm8.'

He called his stepsister. "Where the hell are you?" he demanded. "Why isn't she with you?" he asked, even as his pace grew faster and faster.

"Hey, Chuck!" Serena mumbled. "I'm in the limo. Where are you? We'll pass by for you."

"Why did you let her go alone?"

"She said you told her to hurry, and I couldn't leave Dan alone." He heard her sigh. "Listen, it's fine. She's with a friend."

"Who, Serena?"

She paused. "Don't be jealous, okay?" she started. Chuck drew his breath sharply, as if he cared about anything else right then. "Really. Dan says he's a good guy."

"Who?"

"Senator Harris' son. Kyle Harris."

tbc

Ooops. 40 mins before my shift. I gotta go get dressed. Looks like there's another part.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: **Finally, Blair will have POV at some point in this part. Thank you for reading.

**Part 9**

Ask him how it all started, and depending on the day and the time, his mood and the people around him, Chuck Bass would give you a thousand different answers—if he gave you anything at all. It started at the same beat when Kyle Harris' name dropped from Serena's lips. Or it started from the womb when a heavily pregnant Eleanor Waldorf passed by the table where Evelyn Bass sat reaching across the table for her husband's hand, barely containing the exhilaration bubbling within her, eager to spill her good news to a gruff Bart.

It could have started the day that Nate Archibald, at twelve, informed Chuck that he brought Blair to the Vanderbilt estate, then shared the story of his first innocent kiss. Or it could have started when Chuck's heart skipped a beat the second that Nate told him at his graduation party that they had broken up.

Maybe it started after his father died, when Blair said 'I love you.' Or maybe it started on the eve of her seventeenth when he scoffed at her question and demanded that she 'define like.'

Any of the above could be a possibility. Really, who could tell when it first really began? All he knew was that the butterflies that had once fluttered in his stomach had all turned to a slow and heavy lava threatening to score his chest, his madly rebelling heart. All he knew was that however this started, it would all coalesce into freezing panic.

Chuck ran towards the limo barking orders into his phone.

"What do you mean she's not there?" he demanded from the head of security. "I have a message from her that says she's headed there."

"The record shows that she did come by, but she left almost immediately afterwards."

"Who was she with?" Chuck grated.

The description was unmistakable, and the man on the other line showed a frightening knack for current events to even recognize the companion, "It looked like the senator's son."

And of course they did not leave information of where they would head. His heart sank at the dead end. It would have been nearly impossible, not completely, to tell any one of the guards where they would head. In fact, she could have as easily asked for a cab and given a destination. Instead, Chuck listened as the man informed him that Blair asked the receptionist to inform Chuck Bass that she's leaving, and if he wanted her back then she needed to be bribed.

"Bribed?" Serena repeated quizzically.

His face brightened at the word. "That's my girl," he murmured. The purchase was not complete, and he did not have a hold on the staff the way he already did in The Palace. But now he knew where she was. He called to the driver, and said, "We're heading to the Empire Hotel."

And Serena did not dare question the instructions. She asked in concern, "Will we make it?"

Blair had dropped them the crumbs, and it would be his responsibility to complete the task. At least, with this one communication, she had assured him that there was less to worry about. She would handle from her end. How long she would—not could—was as much a part of the air as the penthouse suite.

"She'll make sure of that," he said with confidence he did not feel. Yet even then he remembered the curt response she had, the simple answer she gave, when he told her his best kept secret.

"_At night, Blair, I dream of killing you."_

"_Don't we all?"_

And Serena nodded, but Chuck's gaze fell to the way her hand fisted on the hem of her dress. His hand covered hers, and her eyes flew to his in her surprise. Serena glanced at the way the dress crumpled in her fist. She did not need to ask him why, knew just the touch was a prompt.

So Serena explained, "You didn't want her for six months."

"That's a lie." Because the entire world could see—Serena could tell. He hounded her enough, needed so desperately to know that his decision saved her even as it punished him.

"That's what you told her."

All lies. He had fought against telling her any of it because he knew the lie would show through in his eyes. The same way he could tell when her eyes told a different story, so could she with his pathetically transparent expressions. "What do you know?"

"I don't—"

And she lied again. He hated it. He was stuck in his limo while Blair—

And all along he had been terrified that it would be his hands around her neck, his bullet lodged inside her, his anger that would overwhelm her.

Chuck grasped Serena's arm tightly. "You're her best friend," he hissed. She had to know. "You're her best friend," he repeated, his voice softer, his tone more pleading. "You have to know. You're her best friend."

Serena gasped. She kept her eyes on him, but answered, "And you're Chuck Bass."

His fingers loosened around her arm. He considered her response. He was Chuck Bass. Blair's Chuck. Because ever since he told her he loved her, he should always be the one you knew her. Even when he forced the wedge between them, a moment with her and he already knew. She never answered, but he knew from that one question she asked.

Blair would not do anything. Dreams were dreams. Dreams were nightmares.

He ran a hand over his face. The driver went through the streets as quickly as he could, and within the shortest time he would be storming his way to her.

They weren't real, she had thrown back at him.

He lifted his phone to his ear. This time, it did not matter that Serena heard, did not matter that he would be completely bare in front of her. After all, he expected her to have some of the answers the way she expected him to have it all.

"She dreams of killing herself," were the first words out of his mouth. Serena's lips thinned. The therapist did not respond. And so, to elicit some form of reply, he said, "Help me."

"Well, Chuck," the therapist said, "if she were in front of me, I would ask her if she made a mistake, if something important has ended which makes her very unhappy." And that pause. He was so familiar with that pause now as the therapist provided him time to think. Then she continued, "But I already know her answer."

~o~o~o~

She could not breathe. She wrapped her hand around her throat. His hand twitched. She flinched when he reached for her.

"What was that?" he asked.

And as quickly as she had moved back, her lips curved, fascinating him once again by the way they glistened. "Nothing," she answered quickly.

He poured her a glass of champagne and watched her throat work to swallow the liquid. His lips quirked at the sight of her skin. "You have goosebumps." Kyle walked towards the windows and looked outside at the Upper West Side, so familiar but never came close to being home. And she moved around like she owned it all—the Palace, the Empire. And every one of the staff scurried to serve her as if she really did. "Your mother's a designer."

She nodded. "Her studio's in Hollywood."

"And your dad—"

"Is a corporate lawyer and financier. He lives in France."

And there was absolutely no reason for the staff to fawn over her. His voice hardened when he said, "You have men coming in and out of your dorm."

Blair's gaze shot up to Kyle. Slowly, she managed, "I have a lot of friends."

"Of course you do." Did she hold her breath as he came close? Kyle closed his eyes when he dipped his head to tease a little at her lips. She stepped back, hesitant but he understood, and he placed a hand on the small of her back. With the other he cupped her face with a thumb and a forefinger on either sides of her jaw. When she did not move her lips, Kyle straightened and looked down at her face. There was a delicious track making its way down her face, of a single tear that followed the curve of her cheek. Happiness enough to bring her to tears. Of course. He nipped close, and he heard the choked cry from her throat. "You know I'm really glad that it didn't work out with Jeff," he told her. "He wasn't ever going to be enough of a man for you."

She kept her eyes closed, and if she did it longer he would be pissed off. "Open your eyes." And when she didn't, his hand on her jaw tightened until his fingers slipped and dug into her cheeks, forcing her mouth to open. Look at that. He didn't want to have to do that. Her mouth looked ugly that way, bearing none of the classic delicious sheen of before. And he did not want to have to see it, so he covered her mouth with his.

And it was not even a minute before she pushed away from him and raced away, intent on a destination that he did not know. He called out, "What's wrong now?" He would be furious, but he reminded himself that he had known she was high maintenance before he even began the pursuit.

She left the door open and he could see from his vantage point how she bent over the sink and heaved. "Did you eat anything out of the ordinary?" he asked, shifting to concern.

She did not answer, but bent lower with her forearms on either side of the marble sink. She turned on the faucet to hide the noises that she made, and he watched from the doorway the few clear drops that fell from her face. She met his eyes on their reflection, and pleaded with him, "I need to go home."

"If you're sick, you need someone to take care of you," he insisted. He placed a glass under the steady running water, then handed it to her. "Wash your mouth." She reached for the glass, and he caught sight of the tremor in her hand when she did. "Come on. I'll help you to bed." There was time enough for kisses tomorrow. There was time enough for more the day after.

He grasped her elbow, but she blindly reached to the side to push him away. She made her way from the sink out to the room, grabbing on to the wall, then the door, then finally stumbling towards the bed.

"Lie down," he told her.

But she remained standing at the center of the room.

"Sit down. If you're sick, I'll make it all better."

She turned her face away from him, edged back towards the door.

"Do you need to go anywhere?"

And then quickly, she said, "The hospital."

"We're not leaving, Blair. This is a good suite. It's better than any room they have in the hospital. Lie down. You'll feel better, I promise." And maybe it was because she really felt ill, because she did not move or pay attention. His only intention was to help, so he placed a hand firm on her shoulders and pushed down. He bore until her knees buckled and she sprawled on the covers. Quickly, she raised herself up with her elbows.

"Kyle, don't—"

He frowned, because she was scared and he had never meant to scare her. "Don't what?" Her lips pursed. She swallowed. She had been frozen the entire time, he thought. Maybe this time she would feel like she could say anything. "It's me. You can say anything."

"I don't like you, Kyle."

And he was deflated, punctured, or completely destroyed. "Of course you do." She had glared at everyone in the coffeeshop, commented on and insulted every form of life at school. But him… "When I approached you in the library, you smiled at me," he challenged her.

He was on top of her now, with his knees resting on the edge of the bed and his arms on either sides of her elbows. She glanced to her right, then her left where the door out was.

"You smiled."

And her voice was soft when she said, "I'm sure a lot of girls smiled at you too." She shook her head. "It doesn't mean they wanted to hook up with you."

Bitch.

She was such a bitch. He should have known. His sister wore her hair like that and he had to cower in her shadows from the day he was born. She was a bitch, with her perfect shiny smile that he just—

He quickly reached out a hand and wiped at her mouth with the palm of his hand. The stain of her gloss mixed with remnants of Dom forced a rose-colored tint on her chin. She looked up at him win open-mouthed shock.

And then, she squeezed her eyes shut. He could see the moisture seeping out of her eyes, wet her lashes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, softly now. She did not open her eyes. He sighed, then shifted his weight on one knee and collapsed onto the bed beside her. Kyle reached out a hand and placed it on her arm. She recoiled, then turned her back on him. Blair drew her knees up to her chest. Kyle moved closer. "I'm really sorry," he repeated. He placed a kiss on the back of her shoulder. "You love me. I promise, you do."

I do.

She would say that. Really. For the first time they were together and they were so close, and everything he had done so far would make her realize that.

"Tell me," he said to her.

"It's in your head," she said. "Just in your head."

Bitch.

Kyle sat up on the bed and lunged for her.

_And he was there, once again, cursing himself for sleeping on the way and finding himself caught within the grip of a dream. He willed himself to wake, fought against the steps that he inadvertently took, found himself still staring at the bathroom door._

_Despite his overwhelming urge to turn around and walk away, still he found his hand on the knob._

_He would never forget her face. She reached out to him, her hand wet and dripping into the floor into a pool of water and blood._

"_Chuck," she whispered. "Chuck, help me."_

_And just like before, he could not move. He was stuck to the floor and he watched, fascinated at the way her head fell back in the water, the way she sputtered and suffocated as she dipped lower and the water climbed higher._

"_I can't," he choked out._

"_Please."_

_Her cheeks were pale, her lips blue. So very different from the flushed face and the raw lips she sported on all the pictures that haunted him._

_And God, he wanted to take a picture of this too._

_His jaw tightened, and his throat worked to swallow the words. But he was there and she was there and there was no control, no free will, nothing now. And he found himself spilling forth, in wonder, as if it was a discovery, "But I hate you."_

_And the way she closed her eyes, he knew she accepted it._

_And she sank, deeper, deeper, until all he could see from the doorway was tendrils of her hair floating on the surface of the water._

_The next thing he knew, he was racing across the distance, falling to his knees before the tub. He dunked his arms into the water and felt for her. And then, he heaved up until he gathered her up in his arms. He lifted her out of the water and collapsed onto the floor with her, gasping her breath and coughing for air._

_He closed his mouth over hers, then reached for her hand._

She was going to die like this. She was going to die on a bed where she spent so many lovely nights recently. She was eighteen years old, and she had lost everything that was important to her. And she was going to die in the Empire Hotel.

If Chuck didn't already hate her, he would hate her now. She was going to create a haunted horror story for his penthouse suite even before he finalized the purchase.

"_We'll work on everything else. Just remember—I love you."_

Kyle's lips slanted over hers, and Blair turned her head only to have his thumbs dig deeper into her throat. She opened her mouth to take a breath, and his tongue delved into her mouth making her choke in her own breath. She pushed at his chest, but he had rested his entire weight on her and there was no way she could knock him off.

She had been with three other men in her life, and even then all she could think of was that there was only even going to be Chuck Bass in her world. If only for that she settled under him, pliant and calm and she waited until he lifted his mouth from hers. He gasped for breath, and he looked down at her in wonder.

His hand eased from her throat, and she drew in a deep, steadying breath of air.

He brushed a finger on her cheekbone. "Don't keep making me angry."

Her eyes roved his face. She forced a smile on, then murmured, "You're so possessive. You don't have to be. You already know who I love." And if he did not, he would know before the end of the day. Her gaze flickered to the door. It was only Kyle between her and the door.

Blair slowly sat up, and with the careful movement, he moved off of her and closed a hand around hers. She slowly stood, keeping her eyes on him. She needed to change places, needed to be closer to the exit than he was.

And it worked. She found herself several feet away from the door.

She jumped when she heard the thumping on the door, the cry on the other side. "Blair! Blair, open the door!"

Her eyes met Kyle's. To her horror, Kyle snarled and reached for his jacket, then drew out a small hand pistol from the pocket. She gasped. Kyle held a hand out to silence her. "You didn't think a senator's son would be running around without security, did you?" He strode towards the door and pointed the muzzle straight at the door, and she could imagine at that level that a shot would go straight into Chuck's gut.

"Chuck, get away from the door!" she yelled.

"Who's Chuck?" Kyle asked, turning to her. The barrel was trained on her now, but at least it was not directed at Chuck. His eyes narrowed. "Is that the guy who went to your dorm after you left Humphrey's?"

Blair swallowed, then straightened. You never make a deranged armed man angry. Not unless you had a death wish. She blinked away her tears. She walked slowly towards the door, and she watched as the barrel of the gun moved with each of her steps. She was near enough the door, and she was sure Chuck could hear anything she said now.

Looking straight at Kyle, she said tremulously, "Chuck, I don't know how you were planning to fix it. You said we'll fix it later, didn't you?" And he could have answered, but the blood was pounding in her ears and it could very well have kept her from hearing anything.

Not unless you had a death wish.

Kyle set his eyes on her.

She smiled, because there was nothing terrifying about staring into the barrel of a gun. "I'm sorry, Chuck—about Jack, about the fact that you can't forgive me." She blinked rapidly and felt the tears rain down her cheeks. "I love you. Only you. No one else would ever come close."

But when it came down to it, she was a coward just like him. She closed her eyes and waited, felt his breath so close to her that her lashes trembled at contact. He touched her face. He liked touching her face. She shuddered, waited for the cold muzzle to dig into her belly, or to feel it against her temple. Instead, she felt him pull her head back with fingers digging into her scalp.

He kissed her, and, hearing the frantic noises from outside, she kissed back.

He was coming. He came.

It was so swift she realized what happened after—during the numbing pain that followed. He grasped her hair and slammed her head back against the door. Black spots danced around her vision. She fell to her knees and crumpled on the floor.

_And then one sharp shot exploded and everything was dark._

When she woke up, it was in time for the door to fly open. It had not been long, and she found herself enclosed in arms so tight around her she could barely breathe. Blair tried to move free and when she could not, she screamed.

"Blair, Blair, it's okay," she heard the voice murmur into her ear.

And the voice pierced through the haze of panic that possessed her. Her tense body relaxed in his arms and her arms rose to grasp his shoulders. He held firmly to her for what seemed like hours, and she sobbed in relief.

Around them there was a steady flood of people who approached another area in the room, but she could not see. Her fingers dug into his back, and she buried her face into his shoulder. She mumbled in wonder, once she realized, "You're touching me."

And it had been so long…

She laughed softly, in glee, in triumph, when his hands moved to cup her face. His skin on hers. And he looked at where they connected in marvel. "I am," he agreed.

She sniffled. "You're not hurting me."

And he shook his head. He dipped his head and gave her a fervent kiss.

No. Not hurting her at all. She placed her hands over his. "Don't let go," she pleaded when their lips parted.

"I wanted to save you," he confessed.

And only then did she see the blood on his shirt. She placed a hand on the stain, then assessed him for damage, only to find the blood sprayed on her arm, on her dress, all around her. She looked back at the security that gathered behind Chuck, could see nothing until one moved and a shoe peeked from within the circle. "Oh my God!" she gasped. He held her when she lunged forward and burrowed into him. She wanted to vanish into Chuck, disappear so she would not be here, forget what she thought she saw.

"But you saved yourself. You did, Blair."

And she wondered if he ever suspected what she only ever told Serena. She had slipped that day in her room, given him a peek inside a world she would have rather hidden away. She felt the way he crushed her against him, shivered at the starving way his lips pressed against her temple. Knew then that he knew.

The dreams were not over, not by far.

That night, she told him how today she closed her eyes and was happy to die.

"At least I told you I loved you," she told him in assurance.

And in the Palace, closed off from the world in a suite they did not share with anyone else, he called the logic bullshit. "You think that would matter to me if I opened the door and found—" He shook his head. No need to give those visions words. He had enough of those images to last him a dozen lifetimes.

And then he told tell her how he absolutely hated that she had never apologized for sleeping with Jack.

"I apologized. A million times," she argued with him, but even when she raised his voice, she did not stir from her place beside him as they lay under the blankets.

And he did not break their twined hands when he retorted, "You apologized for whatever you did. You told me you were sorry for whatever you did. When you admitted you slept with him, you never apologized, Blair."

And she raised herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. He regarded her with the same determined look.

"What are we doing?" she asked sadly. "What are we still doing together?"

His jaw tightened, and he brought her back to lie down with him, her head pillowed on his arm. She wrapped an arm around his torso while he wrapped her tight against him. "What are we doing?" he repeated. "Tonight, we're going to sleep. I haven't slept a full night for six months. And then tomorrow, we have a date with my therapist."

She sighed, but breathed in his smell because she missed waking up and smelling only Chuck all around her. "That's not what I'm asking, Chuck, and you know it."

"You want to know why we're still together."

"Yes."

"I didn't answer because it's a stupid question," he murmured. He closed his eyes and breathed. And for the first time in a long time, sleep came so easily. "You know why," he said.

And really, she thought, breathing in his scent and drifting off to sleep, they were together because… She smiled… because she would rather wake up with Chuck's hands squeezing the life out of her than wake up with someone else beside her.

She sighed. She hoped his therapist was good.

fin


End file.
